Terminal Velocity
by loobeyloo
Summary: Charged with an unusual mission for The Firm, Stringfellow Hawke finds himself back in uniform, seeking to uncover a saboteur on a top secret military project, having to rely on his own wits and skills to survive.
1. Chapter 1

_**Airwolf – Terminal Velocity.**_

_This is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters._

_**Prologue.**_

Santini Air, Van Nuys, California.

Summer 1984.

"You took your sweet time," Dominic Santini grouched as he watched his young colleague, Stringfellow Hawke, saunter back into the hangar with an aerial map in his hands.

"Maybe if you had some kind of proper filing system back there, it wouldn't have taken me half the morning to find what I was looking for."

"There's nothing wrong with my filing system."

"If you happen to read Braille."

"Smart Alec," Santini grumbled. "I'm a pilot, not a secretary," he gave the younger man a pointed look. "Point of fact, mister, I ain't _**your**_ secretary."

"Ok," Hawke let out a deep sigh and regarded his friend with cold blue eyes. "I'll bite. What's gotten your underwear in such a tangle?"

"I took a message for you."

Hawke frowned.

He hadn't heard the telephone ring.

But then again he had had his head buried in every drawer of every damned filing cabinet in the small back office for the last hour or so, trying to find the map he needed for an aerial stunt Santini had assigned him to do out of town, on location in an area that he wasn't all that familiar with.

Hawke continued to frown as he tried to figure out who had called and why it had so obviously put Santini's nose out of joint.

"Well, are you gonna tell me who it was, or do we stand here for the rest of the day playing guess who?"

"Archangel."

"And?" Hawke prompted impatiently.

"He said he wanted to see you, ASAP."

"That's it? That's what's gotten you so bent out of shape?" Hawke rolled his eyes heavenward in incredulity.

"Not exactly …."

"Oh my, it is like pulling teeth today," Hawke sighed deeply once more in frustration.

"Smart ass."

"Spit it out Dom, you'll feel better."

"Well, when I told him _**we'd **_be right along, he said it was just _**you **_he wanted to see …. _**Not me**_**.**"

"Well, there's nothing unusual in that, is there? I'm the one who's the thorn in his side."

"But …."

"We're a team, Dom," Hawke strode over to join his friend and slapped him convivially on the back now, sensing that a good dose of reassurance was required to soothe the older man's ruffled feathers.

"I couldn't have done half what Archangel has asked of me without your help, and he knows it, as well as I do. But, let's face it, although he accepts that you are a vital member of the crew, I'm the one he feels he has to deal with, and tact isn't always his strong suit."

"Sure," Santini sighed, but his crestfallen expression said more about how hurt he was feeling than any words. "Odd failing that, for a guy in his line of work."

"You won't get left out old friend," Hawke assured. "Didn't I just say you were a vital member of the crew?"

"Yeah. Thanks, but …."

"Dom, I don't know what the hell Michael wants, and right now, I don't really care. I'm so tired of his pulling all the strings and still managing not to keep to his end of the bargain. I guess it's time I reminded him of the rules of engagement around here."

"You go give him hell, kid," Santini's grin was warmer now.

"Youbetchya," Hawke assured once more and again slapped Santini on the back. "Youbetchya."


	2. Chapter 2

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter One**

Later that day.

Stringfellow Hawke let out a long, heavy sigh of impatience, but the young woman seated behind the reception desk did not so much as bat an eyelid, remaining silent and poised, her attention directed to the work she was typing into the computer, her fingers skipping lightly and almost silently over the keyboard, pale blue eyes focused on the TV style computer screen.

Hawke felt invisible.

He had been sitting there for almost forty five minutes, waiting to be summoned into the inner sanctum, and he was tired of watching the ailing pot plant on the other side of the room, growing. Or was that dying? It was hard to be sure if all those dry brown leaves were an indication that the plant was sickly, or if it was meant to look that way.

Hawke was no horticulturist, and as he let out another deep sigh of frustration and impatience, he knew that there had been days when he had had more fun watching oil stains dry.

Something was going on.

He could feel the tension in the air, but no-one was talking, especially not to him.

Hawke had been greeted in the main reception upon his arrival here at Knightsbridge, by a stranger, a young woman with a nice figure and graceful movements, a red head, clad from head to toe in white, and when he had enquired as to Marella's whereabouts, the young agent had told him succinctly that Marella was otherwise engaged, before leading him down the warren of corridors that led to Archangel's office.

Hawke could have found his own way. He'd been here often enough in the past, but he got the feeling that they didn't want just any one wandering around the building, especially unaccompanied.

_**Spooks ….**_

When he had reached the small reception area outside Archangel's office the young woman seated behind the desk had barely taken her eyes off of the computer screen as she had confirmed that he was expected, and that Archangel would see him directly.

Ordinarily, that would mean a wait of no longer than perhaps five or ten minutes, depending on how much Archangel wanted to make him stew.

The older man knew how much Hawke disliked having to be kept waiting.

Today was no ordinary day.

For one thing, Archangel's request that he come alone.

Naturally, this had upset and offended Dominic Santini and the older man's sulky mood and questioning looks had gotten to Hawke more than one of his old friend's infamous screaming fits.

Not involving Dominic had also put Hawke on edge.

He had gotten used to having his trusted old friend there as backup in the craziness that often accompanied the work he was required to do for the Firm.

This, more than anything else had unsettled Hawke, because it meant that there was something unusual brewing.

Unusual in so much as, Hawke felt sure that it could not involve Airwolf.

Archangel was aware that she had been designed for a three man crew and that at a push he and Dominic could manage to operate her safely, but no matter how hot shot a pilot Hawke was, he knew that he could not handle everything alone, and Airwolf had been designed to that end. The pilot had enough to do trying to fly straight and level and handle a few of the weapons systems from his position, but the avionics bay, where the engineer crewmember was positioned was where the controls for almost all the other weaponry and defence systems were located.

He didn't like it.

Not one little bit.

But he had no choice but to respond to the summons from the Deputy Director Of Special Projects.

Hawke had struck a deal with Archangel, and now he was stuck to honouring his side of the bargain, even if he felt that Archangel hadn't quite lived up to his.

It was still early days.

At long last, after Hawke had spent an interminable time examining the starkly painted white walls and the well trodden, off white carpet, his fingernails and the intricate stitching on his shoes, the door to Michael Coldsmith Briggs III office finally cracked open, and the man himself, clad in a pristine white cable knit sweater, white pants, socks and shoes, and not so much as a sandy blond hair out of place, appeared in the open doorway.

He regarded Stringfellow Hawke with his good blue eye now, trying to gauge the younger man's mood and as he took in the younger man's scathing look and resentful scowl, he knew that Hawke was not happy to have been kept waiting.

When he was angry or irritated, Archangel knew, it was much harder to deal with Stringfellow Hawke, but, the delay in seeing him had been unavoidable.

"Sorry for the delay Hawke," he offered the apology as he leaned heavily against his silver handled rosewood walking cane. "You can come in now," he invited in cordial tones, opening the door wider to allow the younger man access.

Stringfellow Hawke rose agilely from his perch and grunted out, "What's going on, Michael?" as he pushed his way past the man clad in white and entered the office beyond.

"I have need of your services …."

"Well, I didn't think you invited me here for my health," Hawke snarled, but then his voice trailed away, as, upon entering the office, he realised that it was already occupied.

A thick set, white haired man, clad in a rumpled dark blue suit and tired looking off white shirt with frayed collar and missing top button, sat, one leg crossed over the other, revealing odd socks and scuffed brown leather shoes, before Archangel's desk, an empty coffee cup on the desk before him.

At the sound of Hawke's voice he had swivelled around in his seat and was regarding the two men with undisguised curiosity, through shrewd, grey eyes.

"Why don't you take a seat, Hawke," Archangel invited as he closed the door behind them, and indicated with his cane to the empty seat beside the elderly man, noting as he did so, Stringfellow Hawke's speculative glance, before the younger man did as he was requested and walked over to take the seat beside the older man.

"Hawke, this is Dr Ely Weeks, Dr Weeks, this is Stringfellow Hawke."

Archangel spoke casually now as he rounded his desk and pulled out his own chair, then watched as the two men greeted each other with curt nods and furtive glances.

"I've heard much about you," Ely Weeks spoke in a soft voice made deep and low and gruff by years of smoking cigarettes.

"Can't say the same," Hawke offered in return and then pinned Archangel with another one of his scowls.

"Dr Weeks is the head of a development team building a new fighter jet for the military," Archangel explained, suffering Hawke's piercing, disapproving blue gaze. "All branches of the military," he added. "And to that end, pilots from each branch of the military services have been invited to take part in the testing and training programmes," he continued, relaxing back in his seat now.

"Quite a unique experiment in inter service co-operation," Ely Weeks added somewhat sheepishly now.

"Indeed. For the most part, things have gone well," Archangel continued, recovering himself after the brief interruption.

"The prototype is completed and is undergoing testing at a secret location, and is expected to gain its airworthiness certifications in due course. However, regrettably, away from the actual construction of the aircraft, there have been some incidents …."

"I wouldn't call three deaths 'incidents'," Ely Weeks cut in and it was clear from his tight expression and the quiver in his voice that he was both angry and distressed by the loss of life associated with his project.

Stringfellow Hawke was no stranger to the world of aviation testing programmes.

He had been involved in one not so long ago, which is what had gotten him involved with the man in white, seated behind the desk, in the first place.

Hawke was well aware of the associated risks involved in testing new aircraft. They had a nasty habit of not reacting as they should, failing to meet expectations, and simply falling out of the sky for no apparent reason.

You knew all of these things when you signed on.

It was what you, as the test pilot, were there for.

Taking the aircraft to the very limits of its design parameters and seeking out the flaws.

Every precaution was usually taken.

But sometimes ….

Men died.

That was just how it was.

Hawke suspected that this particular project involved extreme altitudes and supersonic velocities.

If that was indeed the case, then they could count themselves lucky that there had only been three fatalities.

So far.

But if these fatalities had nothing to do with the actual failure of the aircraft ….

"Incidents?" Hawke prompted. "What kind of incidents?" He directed his question to Archangel now, not wanting to get sucked into the older man's highly emotional state. "What exactly are we talking about here, Michael? Accidents? Complacency? Sabotage?"

"No!" Ely Weeks exploded, his face suffused with colour and his grey eyes almost popping out of his head. "We have taken every reasonable precaution. All my people were thoroughly vetted and are very experienced and highly professional and trustworthy …."

"Calm yourself, doctor," Archangel advised in a gentle manner, drawing the older man's sizzling gaze away from Stringfellow Hawke and with relief, Hawke watched the anger and the outrage drain out of Weeks.

"I'm sorry, I'm just at my wits end."

"Of course you are. Which is why you have come to us with this."

"Yes. I'm sorry," Weeks addressed himself to Hawke again now. "I've been doing this sort of thing for most of my adult life, Mr Hawke, and nothing like this has ever happened to me before."

Hawke nodded in silent acceptance of the man's apology for his outburst.

"And I know it probably sounds harsh, but even I am aware that there are risks involved in what I do. Although I don't subscribe to it, I am aware that the military do see it as an acceptable loss of life," his voice trailed away and Hawke knew that he was again thinking of the lives that had been lost.

Maybe not just the ones lost on this particular project.

"In answer to your question, Hawke," Archangel drew Stringfellow Hawke's eyes back to himself now and continued. "The only answer I have for you is, we just don't know. Enquiries are still being carried out into the latest fatality, which occurred two weeks ago, but the other investigations have proved inconclusive," he explained, and was rewarded with yet another penetrating glare from Stringfellow Hawke, indicating that he would appreciate a little more detail.

"There have been three deaths," Archangel let out a ragged sigh. "Perhaps I should let Dr Weeks explain," he invited now.

"Well, now that I cast my mind back and think about it, there have been lots of little things, even before the first death. Irritants more than anything else, screw ups with equipment deliveries, faulty equipment, personnel being sent to the wrong location, vehicles breaking down, power failures and lost files, but these things happen even to the best planned operations."

Weeks sighed softly now and Hawke noted the twitching of his heavily nicotine stained fingers and suspected that he could use a tobacco fix about now, to calm his nerves.

"When you are setting up a new operation, you just accept that things won't run as smoothly to begin with. Not even the military is immune to the odd snafu now and then," he smiled weakly at his attempt at levity, and Hawke found himself thinking sarcastically, that the man did not know just what an understatement that was.

"The first fatality happened about two months ago. You have to understand that my main involvement in the project is the actual design and development of the aircraft, putting my ideas down on paper, and then actually building the prototype, but the military insisted that I also get involved in the setting up of the flight crew testing programme," he explained and Hawke nodded.

"To that end, I was assisting in the setting up of the testing equipment and reviewing the resumes of the pilot candidates put forward by each of the branches of the military. At first, all went according to expectation. The odd little irritant, as I said before, but nothing that would have made alarm bells ring, for any of us. However," he drew in a long, ragged breath and fidgeted in his chair briefly, before continuing.

"We were setting up the simulator, and there was a sudden power surge in one of the circuits, and a technician was electrocuted. Naturally, at the time, it was ruled as a tragic accident, but then, on a routine altitude test flight, one of the trainee's pressure suits failed, and he suffered oxygen starvation. They tried everything to resuscitate him, but it was useless."

He paused for a moment to try to regain his composure, the fingers of his right hand still twitching

"You said this project involves all branches of the services?" This from Stringfellow Hawke now, and Archangel immediately knew where he was going with his line of thinking. "How exactly is the project staffed, Dr Weeks?"

"Mostly by the Air Force, as they will be the main recipient of the new aircraft, but, unusually, we come under the umbrella of the Navy. We were offered the use of a disused facility on land owned by the Navy, out in the desert."

Hawke nodded gently, thinking that he might have an idea of the place that Weeks was talking about.

Deep in the heart of the desert, isolated, not easily accessible by land, with restricted access to its air space, no doubt, and far enough away from civilisation not to cause too much curiosity from the locals.

Exactly the same criteria that had helped him to chose the location for Airwolf's hiding place.

"It was remote and in disrepair, needing a lot of work before it was habitable, but it was deemed to be perfect by the top brass representing all three services," again Hawke nodded, thinking sarcastically to himself that it must have been a really cold day in hell the day that decision was made.

It was unheard of for the Army, Navy and Air Force to be in complete agreement and co-operation, and that more than anything else that he had heard so far, indicated to Stringfellow Hawke just how important this new military aircraft was going to be to the future defence of the country.

"There is a landing strip close by, which the Air Force has commandeered so that the trainees can maintain their air hours in existing military aircraft," Weeks continued, warming to his subject now.

"The scientists involved are a mixture of government approved civilians, all of whom I can personally vouch for. Technicians, again, are supplied by the Air Force, to maintain the air craft and vehicles, as well as the electrical equipment we use in testing, and, as Mr Coldsmith Briggs has just told you, the trainees in the programme come from the Army, Navy and USAF, two men from each service. There are a handful of other civilians, medical doctors and admin staff mostly, and that's it really."

"The technician who died was a sergeant in the Army, the trainee who died was a Navy flier," Archangel supplied now. "Naturally we checked to see if there was any kind of connection, but we are almost certain that these two men had never met before joining the project, and we also checked their personal histories, and could find no obvious reason why anyone should want either one of them dead," he concluded.

"So it doesn't sound as if someone is targeting one service over any of the others, so, no inter service grudges," Hawke surmised out loud. "It started small, little things that were more of nuisance value, slowing things up, but when that didn't work, things escalated. You said that there had been three fatalities?" Hawke hated to remind the doctor, but he needed to know everything.

"Yes," there was a distinct quiver in the old man's voice now, and tears quickly filled his grey eyes, forcing him to look away momentarily as he tried to regain control.

"My assistant, Claire Bentley. A wonderful girl, she had been with me since she finished college. She was more like a daughter than a work colleague," he choked then and Hawke and Archangel exchanged sympathetic glances.

"She was killed in a car wreck, four months ago …. Just before we moved out to the new location," Ely Weeks let out a ragged sigh, tears streaming unashamedly down his lined cheeks now. "It seemed completely unrelated, but now, in light of everything else."

"Did any one take her place on the project?" Hawke and Archangel asked in unison and then threw each other knowing looks, each immediately wondering if whoever was behind the attempt to derail the project had deliberately targeted the doctor's assistant so that they could get one of their own people on the inside.

"No," Weeks confirmed hoarsely, struggling to pull him self together. "I couldn't face the thought of it. The accident couldn't have happened at a worse time, relocating, recruiting, I relied on her judgement so much, but after she died, I didn't want to place that kind of responsibility on anyone else, even though there were others who were more than capable of doing the job. So, I did it all myself. Everything was going nuts, and if I am honest with you gentlemen, throwing myself into the work was the only way I could cope with the loss …."

Hawke and Archangel shared a look that said that they were both thinking the same thing.

That in doing so, Weeks had avoided addressing his grief and had turned him self into a nervous wreck.

"Sounds to me like someone is doing their damnedest to make sure your project never gets off the ground," Hawke surmised out loud now. "Has anyone actually tried to tamper with the prototype aircraft?"

"No. It's too heavily guarded. One thing you can rely on the military for. It knows how to guard its secrets. The prototype is located at a secret facility in another state, Mr Hawke, guarded day and night, and attended by only those with the highest government and military clearances. Not even I can get close without the right clearances and escorts," Weeks confirmed now and Hawke nodded, thinking that he knew exactly where the prototype was located, and if he was right, then it was safer than all the gold in Fort Knox.

"What about the plans, blueprints, design drawings?"

"The master copies of everything to do with the aircraft are safely locked away in a Pentagon vault. There is a working plan on site with the prototype."

"What about the computer software? Navigation, guidance, weaponry?"

"That is still a work in progress, Mr Hawke, or should I get used to calling you Major?"

This remark drew a puzzled look from Hawke, but Archangel waved his hand at him in a gesture that beckoned him to wait a little while longer and all would be revealed.

"We are still working on several elements of the computer programming. We have a state of the art simulator on base, and every time we run a test we rerun the programme afterward to see where the glitches were and debug the programme, we also incorporate any new features that are highlighted by the pilots performance at the controls. It's a mutual learning process. Pilots know aircraft, and have an instinct and a feel for things that computer programmers could never understand. We value the trainees input when they come to us and tell us that something could be better."

"So where do I fit in?" Hawke asked now, feeling sure that he knew exactly what Archangel had planned for him, and his heart sank.

"One of the Army trainees had to pull out of the programme," Dr Weeks spoke up now. "Appendicitis," he added at Hawke's suspicious look.

"How very convenient," Hawke mumbled.

"We want you to take his place," Archangel confirmed what Hawke already suspected and he let out a deep, shoulder raising sigh.

"Gee thanks, Michael …."

"You're welcome, Hawke," Archangel replied without batting an eyelid.

"Why me?" But Stringfellow Hawke already knew the answer.

"Because, you're perfect for the job. You have military training and the necessary fitness levels. But, more importantly, you have the necessary flying skills. If you were still in the service, Hawke, there is no doubt that you would have been put forward for a place on this project. So, we thought we would take advantage of that."

"Thank you," Hawke threw the government agent a sour look.

"We need someone on the inside, Hawke, and you are the perfect candidate. No-one would spot you for a ringer," Archangel told him with an air of defiance now. "Neither the government nor the military can afford for this project to fail now. We need this aircraft Hawke, and we need men to fly it. A lot of time, effort and money has gone into getting this project to this point. It can't fail now."

Stringfellow Hawke knew that Archangel was right.

"Then you'd better tell me the plan, Michael," he sighed deeply and glowered at Archangel.

"This could take some time, so I'll go organise some coffee," Archangel pushed his chair back from his desk and was in the process of rising, somewhat stiffly, when Ely Weeks asked somewhat sheepishly now.

"Would you mind if I stepped out for a smoke? Slave to the damned weed …. My one weakness," he smiled weakly and Archangel nodded and indicated to the door.

"Thank you, Mr Hawke. You don't know what this means to me, I've been beside myself, blaming myself for the lives that have been lost. Worrying that someone else might die, watching my life's work go down the toilet. Mr Coldsmith Briggs is correct. This project is just too important, too valuable. If it is being sabotaged, we can't let them succeed Mr Hawke. We just can't," and with that Ely Weeks hastily rose from his seat and rushed out of the office, leaving Stringfellow Hawke and Archangel to share concerned glances.

"I'll see to that coffee now," Archangel limped, somewhat painfully, out from behind his desk and made his way toward the now open door.

"Do me a favour, Michael," Hawke drawled as the older man came to a halt in the doorway and turned back to face him.

"What's that, Hawke?"

"Quit volunteering me for the Army."

"Guess you forgot to check out the small print. In times of crisis, Uncle Sam still owns your sorry ass, soldier," Archangel tried to smother a grin at the sour look that settled on the younger man's strong, handsome features.

"Well can't you at least swing a promotion? No-one is gonna believe that I'm still a Captain after all this time."

"I don't know Hawke, with your penchant for heroics, that temper of yours, and your lax attitude to discipline …. Reading between the lines on your military record, it wouldn't be too hard to believe that you've been promoted up and busted down the ranks, like a fiddler's elbow, over the years."

"With a record like that, I wouldn't even be considered for something like this. Too much of a risk. They didn't let mavericks loose on development projects. At least not back there in my day, and let's face it, I wouldn't exactly be the Army's idea of a poster boy," Hawke grumbled and this time Archangel could not suppress a chuckle.

"Nor the Air Force's either. Although I suspect that in uniform you'll look terrific. Blue or khaki," Hawke pulled anther sour face, recalling how strange it had felt to be wearing air force blues instead of combat fatigues or camouflage.

"Actually, with that glorious tan you have, I think you'd probably cut quite a dash in Navy whites …." Archangel grinned, revealing straight white teeth beneath his neatly trimmed greying sandy blond moustache.

The look on Hawke's face told him that the younger man was definitely not amused, and Archangel found himself wishing that he did not always have to be so damned rigid and unyielding.

"Relax, Hawke," Archangel sighed softly when he regained his composure. "They're a little more selective these days. They don't just let any old riff raff sign up for these sorts of things," he smothered another guffaw at the expression on Hawke's face. "Just don't expect any stars on your epaulettes."

"I won't. Not even I am fool enough to believe that I could pass myself off as a General. What about the other Army candidate? Any chance our paths should have crossed in the past?"

"Captain Frank Campbell, stationed in Europe prior to joining the project, NATO, don't you gotta love 'em. No chance that he will have encountered Major Roger Dobbs any time in his career to date. You see Hawke, we have tried to think of everything. Dotted all the I's and crossed all the T's."

Stringfellow Hawke made no further comment, but he offered the older man a cursory salute and then Archangel disappeared out into the reception area to arrange with the agent on duty there to organise coffee, and fend off any attempts to gain access to him for the rest of the day, with one exception, his assistant, Marella.


	3. Chapter 3

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Two**

"So," Michael Coldsmith Briggs III sat back from his desk and regarded his two guests with interest now.

Two more completely different individuals he could not hope to meet.

The intelligent, harried, archetypical absentminded scientist, Dr Ely Weeks, and the cool, calm, intimidating and ever vigilant, Stringfellow Hawke.

Archangel had a feeling that they were about as compatible as oil and water.

If he had any misgivings at all, it was about Dr Weeks. He was the unknown quantity in this equation.

Stringfellow Hawke had successfully proven his reliability over the time they had known each other, repeatedly showing that he could get the job done.

Ely Weeks could prove to be the weak link here.

The fatal flaw in their plan.

So, it was a good thing that Dr Weeks was about to be unexpectedly called back to Nevada, to attend to some major complication in the prototype aircraft's airframe or some such.

Although the man didn't know it yet.

Archangel had left the arrangements in Marella's capable hands and knew that as soon as this meeting adjourned she would whisk the scientist away and keep him more than occupied until Hawke's little adventure was over.

Weeks had returned from his cigarette break looking flushed and ill at ease, carrying the scent of cigarette smoke in with him, and after resuming his seat before Archangel's desk, had made short work of two cups of the excellent, strong black coffee that had arrived during his absence.

No wonder the guy was a wreck, Archangel thought looking at his puffy eyes, red lined cheeks, rumpled clothes and sallow complexion. Living on nicotine, caffeine and adrenalin, and not much else he would wager.

On the other hand, Stringfellow Hawke looked a picture of health and vitality, strong, handsome, virile, exuding confidence. A young man in his prime. Archangel had no doubt that he could pull off what was expected of him.

"Gentlemen, let's get down to business," Archangel continued now, having got both men's attention. He opened his top desk drawer and extracted a thin, buff coloured folder and flipped it open casually, quickly scanning the top sheet of paper before looking back up at Stringfellow Hawke.

"So, Project Thunderbird, a highly classified jet fighter currently under development. The main prototype is being developed for use with the Air Force, but if it is successful, then the Army and the Navy will each get a variation on the design for their own use. You, will be going in under an assumed name. Marella is, as we speak, working on your cover story."

_**Amongst other things,**_ Archangel thought to himself as he saw Hawke's raised eyebrow.

"Let's face it, with a name like Stringfellow Hawke, it would make you easy to check out. Might make someone suspicious that it is just too contrived," he pointed out matter of factly, ignoring Hawke's indignant expression now.

"And what if one of the other pilots recognises me from 'Nam?" Hawke pointed out in a low voice.

"They won't," Archangel assured. "We've already checked. None of the present group of trainees has ever served with you, Hawke," Archangel's voice trailed away, leaving Hawke in no doubt that the present group of trainees had probably been in first grade when he had been flying Huey's in Vietnam.

_**Terrific …. **_

That was all he needed.

A double whammy.

He would no doubt have to deal with comments about his being the new guy and an old timer to boot!

As well as playing catch up.

"So tell me, who the hell am I supposed to be?" Hawke growled.

"As I said, Marella is working on the finer points of your cover story, but," Stringfellow Hawke let out a deep sigh as he watched Archangel's good eye flick briefly down to the open file on his desk and then back up to meet his own questioning look.

"Major," Archangel smiled now recalling Hawke's earlier request for a promotion. "Major Roger Dobbs."

Stringfellow Hawke showed his displeasure with a scathing look at the Firm's Deputy Director of Special Projects, but wisely made no comment.

"I'll have to fill you in on the rest later, Roger, but we thought it prudent to start out by using your real military record and build on that. Marella is working out the finer points and making sure that everything ties up."

"When and where do I report for duty?" Hawke snarled impatiently now.

"You report to Heatham at 0.800 hours tomorrow. I know just how much you enjoyed your last little sojourn," Amusement danced in Archangel's good right blue eye now, and this drew another scowl from Hawke.

Heatham Air Base, situated about an hours' drive south of Los Angeles, had been the location of Hawke's recent return to military duty, under cover for the Firm, trying to track down a traitor who was rumoured to be planning to hand over a military aircraft to the Soviets.

It hadn't been the most comfortable of experiences for Hawke, facing resentment and antagonism and natural distrust from his fellow pilots, because he was Army and they were Air Force and they didn't think that he had any rights being in one of their aircraft.

"You will stay there for a month, acclimatising to military life, following their aircraft recertification programme. They retest all their pilots every few years just to make sure that they are A1, and the exchange programme that we took advantage of last time is still operating. All in the spirit of co-operation. You will have a routine physical and take part in basic fitness and stress endurance tests, and then maybe they will let you play with their latest jet fighter, to top up your hours and hone your skills. I'm sure that you know the drill."

Hawke did.

Rousted out of bed before dawn light had begun to creep over the horizon, by some loud, sadistic, over zealous drill sergeant, or whatever the Air Force equivalent was, to haul his ass for ten or fifteen kilometres through all manner of terrain, and over every imaginable obstacle, under the guise of PT, and then be expected to endure hours in classes brushing up on navigation, weaponry and communication skills and safety protocols, then maybe a little marching and another obstacle course, and then, if he was really lucky he might get to wash and wax the jet before finally being allowed to sit in back, to be nurse maided like a green horn, by some baby faced, gung-ho speed merchant.

Stringfellow Hawke's idea of heaven.

_**Not.**_

"Don't look like that, Hawke. It's for your own good. Can't send you in there without knowing that you are up to scratch. You are actually going have to participate in this training programme for real …."

"And you think maybe civilian life has made me soft? You don't think that I can handle it?"

"I'm sure you can. But, you really can't blame Uncle Sam for wanting to be certain. You'll be up there with the top flight, top guns, Hawke, and while you'll all be trying to reach the same goal, you know damned well that they won't miss any opportunity to turn it into some kind of competition. Some kind of rite of passage. They all believe that they are there by right. They'll want to make sure that you have the right to be up there with them too, and you will have a lot of ground to make up on them."

"And you want to make sure the _**old **_man can keep up with the young pups."

"No Hawke, we need to make sure that you meet the required levels of fitness and skill so that your sorry ass doesn't get canned before you even get a chance to find out what is going on here," Archangel reminded him tersely now. "These people are very particular Hawke, and if you don't measure up …."

"Ok, ok, I get the picture," Hawke sighed deeply, for once feeling relieved that he had maintained his physical fitness levels, keeping in shape with a regular regime that consisted of long runs, swimming in the lake, cutting lumber and pumping weights.

It wouldn't take him long to get back to peak fitness levels.

"Shape up or ship out," Hawke drawled now.

"Exactly. You look fit enough, and God knows, with your combat experience and working all these years for Santini, I doubt there isn't an aircraft known to man that you couldn't handle, or a situation you couldn't deal with, but, we need to make sure that you really are as fit and healthy as you look. We wouldn't want to put you at risk because we didn't make absolutely sure."

"Thank you." However Hawke's tone did not hold any kind of gratitude.

"You raised a valid point about your age, but I can assure you that you fall within the age limit parameters. The upper limit, it has to be said, but you still meet the criteria," Archangel tried to smother a smirk. "They also wouldn't want you to take in any communicable diseases."

"Very funny," Hawke sneered now.

"I'm not kidding, Hawke," Archangel grew serious now.

"Fine," Hawke ground out through clenched teeth.

"You are in your prime Hawke, and if memory serves NASA weren't too bothered about the ravages of age when they put Neil Armstrong, a thirty nine year old, on the moon, but I told you, they are looking for perfect physical specimens, because the rigours of this training programme are more than most men could hope to endure. We're moving into a new age of military aviation, Hawke, you of all people should know what I'm talking about," Archangel gave the younger man a long, pointed and meaningful glare now.

"And yes, the protocols on this project do rank up there alongside NASA, and to avoid suspicion from the get-go, this has to look like the real deal, which in turn means, that _**you **_have to look and sound and _**feel **_like the real deal, to those already involved."

Stringfellow Hawke lowered his gaze now as he finally had the good grace to look suitably rebuked, as he sat back in his chair and crossed one soft brown suede encased ankle over the other knee.

"That is why your existing background in the military is a good, sound starting point," Archangel's expression softened slightly now, glad that he had finally made his point to the younger man. "And why Marella is being meticulous in putting together a plausible biography for Roger Dobbs. You can rest assured that someone is going to run a background check on you, and we don't want there to be any doubt that you are who you say you are, and that you have the right to be there."

"Ok, Michael," Hawke sighed in resignation now.

"I know you've done this sort of thing before, Hawke, and it will give you a heads up, but this time it's a little different. This time you need to fit in, establish yourself, build trust, a rapport with your colleagues, before you start snooping around. This operation needs a little subtlety and finesse, and it's going to take some time. You're not going to get this job done in five minutes."

"So noted," Hawke responded succinctly, wondering where Dominic Santini was going to fit in with this little adventure.

And, fast coming to the conclusion that, he simply did not.

That his initial gut feeling that this was not about his association with Airwolf, was correct.

Hawke suddenly found himself hoping that Marella was also working on a story he could feed Dominic to cover the fact that he was going to have to drop out of sight for quite a while.

Unless he could persuade Archangel to involve Dominic Santini, somehow. After all, he might need some backup, and he would feel better if he had his old friend Dom covering his six.

If they were intending to leave the old coot of out this, then Archangel was going to have to run some pretty good interference to keep the old guy from barging in and wrecking everything.

"Ok, I guess that's about all I can offer you at the moment, but Dr Weeks will be able to fill you in on the aircraft design and specification, and the kind of tests you can expect to participate in."

Stringfellow Hawke then listened patiently as Dr Ely Weeks waxed lyrical about his miraculous creation, taking in the salient points about design specifications and performance parameters, accepting that the man was naturally proud of his work on the project, and genuinely disturbed about the tragedies that were occurring all around him.

Just before the meeting concluded, Marella arrived and after greeting Hawke with a pleasant smile, handed Archangel a new buff file and leaned in close to his ear to whisper something.

"Dr Weeks, I'm afraid there has been a new development, and you are required to go straight to the prototype's location."

"Oh God, what now?"

"Something to do with a stress fracture in the tail rigging," Archangel waved his hand vaguely. "We have a plane all gassed up and waiting for you. Marella will show you the way."

"What was that all about?" Hawke asked, arching an eyebrow quizzically once Marella and Ely Weeks had departed the office.

"Was it that obvious?" Archangel asked now.

"Only to someone who knows how devious you really are, Michael," Hawke managed a weak smile now.

"You saw the man, Hawke, he's about ready to self destruct. I couldn't take the risk of letting him go back and accidentally blowing your cover."

Hawke nodded, agreeing with Archangel's assessment of the scientist's fragile emotional and mental state.

"So where does Dom fit into all this?"

"He doesn't," Archangel replied succinctly.

"What about the Lady?"

"Absolutely not."

"You expect me to go in there without any kind of backup?"

"I didn't say that. Did you hear me say that? I just said no Santini, and no Airwolf," Archangel growled. "Hell fire, Hawke, keeping Airwolf under wraps is difficult enough at the best of times, so there is no way that the Committee is going to allow you or Santini to flaunt her right under the noses of the Army, Navy and Air Force!" His tone was scathing as his voice rose up through the scale.

"Ok, I get the picture," Hawke sighed deeply now, but he did not like it. "I can understand about the Lady, but what about Dom?"

"We went through this the last time, Hawke. Santini could never pass for a military pilot, and somehow I don't think that Project Thunderbird is recruiting janitors. And on a personal note, I couldn't cope with any more of Dominic's tips on keeping my toilet bowl clean and fresh!"

"Ok Michael, geez. You made your point."

"I'm sorry Hawke, but this time, you go in without the aid of the Santini/Airwolf safety net. I'll make arrangements for some kind of backup, a contact for you to pass information back and forth, but for the time being, my friend, you are on your own."

"So what do I tell him? He'll need to know that I'm not going to be around for a while. He's gonna put two and two together."

"And come up with twenty. I don't care what you tell him, Hawke, that's your problem, just keep us out of it."

"He knew I was coming here, Michael," Hawke reminded.

"Use your imagination, Hawke. It wouldn't be the first time you disappeared off Santini's radar for a while. Let him think I had news for you about St John and you've gone off on one of your crusades."

Hawke threw Archangel another sour look, but he suspected that it might work, for a little while, after all, in the past, he hadn't always shared his quests to find his brother with Dominic.

"Do you? Have news about St John?"

"No," Archangel said simply but his tone clearly said that there was an end to it.

Hawke also realised at the same time as Archangel reached out for the telephone on his desk and turned it around to face him, that he wasn't going back to the Santini Air hangar, or even home to his lakeside mountain cabin.

His mission had already begun.

"You'll be spending the night here, Hawke, give us time to brief you on your bio, and the profiles of the rest of the pilots on the programme, and then we'll provide transport for you to Heatham in the morning."

"Heatham. What about Roper?"

Major Sam Roper had been a real pain the last time Hawke had been at the base, mainly because he was the main suspect on Hawke's radar, as the turncoat planning to deliver a Skyfox F-59 to the Russians in exchange for getting his son back.

Things had worked out in the end, when Hawke and Santini, had used Airwolf to rescue Roper's son, Ho Minh from the Russians, and delivered him safely home to Roper and his Vietnamese wife, Nhi Huong, but there had been a real clash of personalities and mutual distrust in the beginning.

Hawke knew that if Roper was still stationed at Heatham, there could be trouble.

"Is he still stationed there?"

"Sure is," Archangel confirmed. "And he knows you are coming. I called him and filled him in, begged a favour, and he was more than happy to co-operate. Seems he is still grateful for your help a while back, and Nhi and young Stringfellow send their love," Archangel grinned now and Hawke realised that he and Marella really had tried to cover all the bases.

"Major Roper will be your instructor at Heatham, and is willing to make nice. He'll make it seem like he and Roger Dobbs are buddies from way back. He doesn't know the finer details of your mission, only that this is something very important, and he's willing to make things a little easier on you this time around the block, and he has assured me that there won't be any trouble with the rest of the squadron, pointing out that you bear a striking resemblance to a certain Army Huey pilot, or asking questions about what you are doing there."

"Magnanimous of him. Well, I guess you thought of everything."

"We certainly tried," Archangel glanced down at the telephone and then back up at Hawke expectantly.

Stringfellow Hawke reluctantly reached out to take the telephone and dialled the familiar number of Santini Air, a quick glance at his wristwatch confirming that it was late, and that with any luck Dominic would have gone home. Leaving a message on the office answering machine was preferable to speaking to the old man, who no doubt would try to prise out of him what was really going on.

The office answering machine cut in after four rings, and with a sigh of relief, Stringfellow Hawke waited for the beep to sound in his ear, to indicate that the message was being recorded, clearing his throat and trying to decide what he should say to allow Dominic Santini to understand what was going on, without actually having to spell it out for him.

"Hi Dom, String. Look, sorry its kinda short notice, but something came up. I have to go out of town for a while, to visit Aunt Lillian. Don't worry, I'm ok, and I'll be in touch when I can."

Santini Air Hangar, Van Nuys, California.

"_Hi Dom, String. Look, sorry its kinda short notice, but something came up. I have to go out of town for a while, to visit Aunt Lillian. Don't worry, I'm ok, and I'll be in touch when I can."_

Dominic Santini listened to the message for the umpteenth time, trying to find something in Hawke's voice, some nuance, some clue as to what was really going on, but the younger man sounded calm, casual.

_**Aunt Lillian.**_

_**Damn.**_

Santini hadn't heard that name for quite a while.

Indeed, he had hoped never to hear it again, for he knew it spelled trouble of one kind or another.

Hawke's message about his need to visit Aunt Lillian was a code.

One that Hawke had devised years ago, to let Dominic Santini know that he had heard some rumour about his brother, St John, and had gone off on some wild goose chase to try to track him down.

Santini had hoped that now that Hawke was involved with The Firm, these little private adventures of his would cease, but it seemed that Hawke wasn't averse to using any method to try to get close to the truth about his brother's fate.

"Ah kid," Santini sighed deeply and rolled his eyes heavenward. "When are you gonna stop chasing shadows …. And ghosts."

_**Why didn't you come to me? **_

_**Why couldn't you trust me?**_ Santini asked silently, but he already knew the answer.

Hawke didn't want to involve his old friend, because he might have to do things that weren't exactly legal. Things that he knew that his old friend would certainly not approve of.

"Take care kid," Santini uttered the words like a prayer, from his heart. "Take care. You know where I am if you need help."

_**And in the meantime.**_

"Who is going to do all the work around here?" He sighed in exasperation and rolled his eyes heavenward once more. "Me …. that's who!"


	4. Chapter 4

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Three**

Heatham Air Base, California.

One month later.

0.4.00 Hours.

"Well, you didn't shape up too badly, for Army," Sam Roper's smile was genuine as he took Stringfellow Hawke's hand now and pumped it vigorously. The expression on his face told of his pleasure and pride in the way that his old rival had handled himself in the last month.

Roper had stuck his neck out and gone into bat on Hawke's behalf, and he had been richly rewarded by the way the younger Hawke brother had thrown himself into the programme.

And done himself and his sponsor proud.

Under the guise of Major Roger Dobbs, Hawke had just completed his re-certification programme at Heatham Airbase, and if he were absolutely honest with himself, he had enjoyed every damned minute of it, mixing with other fliers, swapping war stories, pitting his wits against other experienced pilots and rising to every challenge thrown at him.

He had passed with flying colours, and was rightly pleased and proud of his achievement.

There had been some ribbing and good natured teasing in the beginning, some of the guys recalling Stringfellow Hawke's last posting with them. However their curiosity had soon waned. He had soon learned that they were all aware of what Hawke and the Firm had done for the Ropers, with regard to their son, and had shown their gratitude by not questioning the reason for his being there, under a new name, accepting that he was working on something of great importance and secrecy.

He had been grateful.

It had allowed him time to concentrate on the work at hand, and to try to develop his new persona.

He had also enjoyed spending much of his down time with the Ropers. Young String was growing like a weed, and had quickly adapted to his new life Stateside. Hawke had felt honoured to be so readily included as part of their little family and his obvious friendship with Sam Roper had certainly helped to relieve some of the tension and rivalry amongst the other men in the beginning.

Now, in the still darkness of the wee small hours of the morning, Sam Roper was shaking his hand and clapping him jovially on the back, his friendship much more genuine than either might have believed was possible just a month ago.

They were standing just short of the runway, waiting for the transport that had been arranged to take Hawke on to the next leg of his mission on Project Thunderbird, to roll to a halt, scheduled to stay on the ground only long enough for Hawke to get aboard.

Hawke had swapped his Air Force blues for Army Green and was proudly displaying his Major's silver oak leaf insignia on shoulders and cap.

"We'll make a real pilot out of you yet, chicken hawk," Roper chuckled.

"Go to hell," Hawke snarled but there was a twinkle of amusement in his piercing blue eyes now.

"You done good, Army," Roper took his forearm now and squeezed it gently, fixing Hawke with a steady, meaningful look.

"Go tell it to the Marines," Hawke nodded ever so slightly in acknowledgement of the unspoken gift of thanks.

"When you're done socking it to the Navy, give me a call and we can all have dinner."

The invitation was genuine, and so was Stringfellow Hawke's smile

"See ya around, Army."

"Yeah, and Sam, thanks."

"I still owe you, Hawke. You stuck your neck out big time for me and Nhi and the kid. As far as we are concerned, that's one debt we can never repay."

Without further comment, Stringfellow Hawke slung his canvas kitbag over his shoulder and after standing rigidly to attention and offering Major Sam Roper a crisp salute, he turned on his heel and strode purposefully over the tarmac to the waiting pristine white Leah jet, which had been granted a special dispensation to land on military soil, to collect Hawke and take him on to his next destination.

Hawke knew that Archangel would be waiting for him inside, ready to give him his final briefing before delivering him to Project Thunderbird. That briefing, Hawke knew, would bring him up to date on any new developments on the project and also fill in the final few details of his background as Major Roger Dobbs, as well as give him his official orders to report to the project.

As he strode purposefully across the tarmac to the Leah, which was taxiing, circling slowly to line up for take off, Hawke saw the hatch opening and Marella's familiar face poking out to greet him with a brief, warm smile of welcome.

As he drew closer, she reached out, taking his canvas kitbag from him to throw it down on the nearest seat inside, then she offered him her hand, which he gladly accepted as the jet began to pick up speed and he had to haul himself inside quickly. He had barely settled in his seat, watching as Marella sealed the hatch once more, when he felt the jet's speed increase and its wheels lifting up off the tarmac.

"Welcome aboard, Major," Michael Coldsmith Briggs III flicked his gaze up from the file he had been reading as he greeted the newcomer. "Nice duds."

"Glad you approve," Hawke drawled, buckling his seat belt and adjusting his dress uniform jacket so that it would not get creased.

"Seems you made a good impression," Archangel reached out and took a sip from a glass of water on the small table before him. "Passed with flying colours. That is what I find impressive, Major Dobbs. Actions have always made more of an impression on me than words."

"So, how goes things back on the ranch?"

"Pretty quiet actually," Archangel sighed softly. "Of course, Dr Weeks was doing his nut about his enforced vacation, but once Marella explained it to him …."

"Any more incidents?"

"Nothing to speak of …. Just a few more little irritants, to slow things down, but no more accidents or fatalities."

"Ok. What have you got for me?"

"Lots. Would you care for a drink first? The movie is about to start, I thought Flying Leathernecks would be more appropriate, but Marella went to the store and picked up Dumbo instead."

"Can we just get down to it, please, Michael. My head is spinning with all the stuff I need to remember, as it is, and I want to catch a little shut eye before we arrive wherever it is we're going."

"Death Valley, California. More precisely, just outside China Lake," Hawke nodded now, Archangel having confirmed what he had already suspected.

The Navy had a top secret weapons testing range out there that had a no fly zone around it.

Just perfect for concealing another top secret project.

"Arrangements have been made for you to be picked up at the nearest civil airport. Your Army buddy, Captain Campbell volunteered."

"Wanting to size up the competition, no doubt."

"No doubt. So, we had better get you up to speed."

"I can hardly wait."

"Thunderbird is currently under the joint command of Colonel Joseph Williams, USAF, Colonel Thomas Jardine, US Army and Captain Richard Bristow, US Navy. You will report directly to Colonel Jardine, but will be answerable to any and all of the above, if things don't go according to plan, and before you ask, no, they don't have any idea who you really are, so you'd better be convincing in your new persona," Archangel advised in deadly serious tones.

"The fewer people who know the truth, the fewer opportunities to blow your cover and destroy any chance we might have of finding out just what the hell is going on there," Archangel explained in response to Hawke's questioning look.

"Understood," Hawke drawled now. "What is your take on this, Michael?" Hawke asked now, with genuine interest and watched as Archangel absently scratched his right ear lobe with his right index fingernail.

"It could be any number of things. Someone who got overlooked for a job on the project."

"Someone with a grudge?"

"Perhaps."

"But, I'm sure a thorough man like yourself has already checked that out."

"Indeed. Nothing immediately came to light," Archangel confirmed.

"The Russians?"

"Oh my, Hawke, you've been working for The Firm for too long. Seeing Reds under the bed now are we?" Archangel teased at the exasperated expression on the younger man's face now.

"In answer to your question, I guess the jury is still out on that one, and it's your job to find out for sure. It might be our Soviet friends, or it could just as easily be a rival manufacturer, trying to discredit Dr Weeks design so that they can submit one of their own."

"Industrial espionage?" Hawke pondered. The same thought had crossed his mind too, but his money was still on one of the Uncle Sam's adversaries from behind the Iron Curtain. "Is that why Dr Weeks came to the Firm, instead of involving the Army or the Air Force or the Navy Investigations?"

"He wanted a civilian outfit to investigate because he knew that they would be completely unbiased. He thought that if he approached any one of the military services, they would only be interested in discrediting the other services or covering their own incompetence. So, shall we go through this one more time from the top?"

"Sure, why not," Hawke let out a deep sigh, knowing that he had no choice but to play Archangel's little game of charades.

"Major Roger Dobbs, born, Tucson, Arizona, July 10 1950, which makes him a few months younger than you, but who is counting, right? Single, career officer, served three tours in Vietnam, '69 thro '72, but you are familiar with this part of the bio. The only real difference here is Dobbs has no brothers or sisters. Poor Dobbs was an only child, father went AWOL before he was hardly out of diapers and mother was an alcoholic, so he answered the call to arms when he was old enough to join, and looked to Uncle Sam to become his surrogate parents, in return for loyal and faithful duty, and, quite rightly too, good ole Uncle Sam was, and still is very proud of one of his 'sons'."

Archangel paused to take a breath and glanced up from the file to see how Hawke was taking his new personal history, and was surprised to find the younger man relaxed, reclining in his seat, head tilted back slightly and eyes closed.

"Sad story," Hawke finally commented, filling in the momentary silence and disabusing Archangel of the notion that he had fallen asleep already.

_**So what if it was four o'clock in the morning.**_

"If I'm any judge of the man, I don't expect that he feels too sorry for himself though."

"That would be correct."

"Good man, pulled himself up by his boot straps and made something of himself. With Uncle Sam's help and three square meals a day, of course."

"Of course. Now, Dobbs has made the Army his life and his family. He has an unblemished record, and before reporting to Heatham to get reclassified, he was honoured and proud to be recognised for his work at the Army Aviation Branch at Fort Riley, Alabama, where he was a senior instructor on Huey's, the new Apache attack choppers, Black Hawks, Kiowa Scouts and Cobra Light's, under the Army Helicopter Improvement Programme, AHIP. He is neither liked nor disliked, but he is well respected by colleagues and trainee pilots alike, and they will be sorry to see him go."

"Outstanding."

"Currently no girlfriend …. Or boyfriend either …." Archangel added and this drew a scathing look from Hawke. "He doesn't encourage close relationships of any kind, prefers to concentrate on his career. All work and no play makes dear Roger one dull sonofabitch. Dull as dishwater. Just what we need. Do I make myself understood, Major?"

"Sure. Keep my head down, stay out of trouble and my eye on the ball. No heroics, nothing to single myself out. Just do what they expect of me and keep my eyes and ears open."

"Keep it low key and don't get too cocky. Don't make yourself a target for the others to aim at. Stay in contention, but don't allow yourself to get more attention than any of the others."

"Of course, Michael, I know what you want me to do. I'm not there to beat the other guys to get the job of top test pilot. I won't do anything to draw any unwanted attention to myself, but, on the other hand, I won't go out of my way to hold myself back if it means that I will lose the respect and co-operation of the other guys in the programme. Or get myself killed …. All's fair in love and war and aviation testing programmes. We all have to be equal. If I seem to be falling short of the line, endangering myself or others, then they won't think twice about tossing me out of the programme."

"Well, you seem to have grasped the concept quite easily. Think you can do it?"

"Of course I can," Hawke bit back sharply now.

"Ok. Just don't get yourself killed."

Hawke ignored this remark now, although he silently echoed the sentiment.

"What about back up?" He asked instead.

"We're working on it. Might take a couple of days to get someone else onto the base. They're pretty antsy about an influx of new personnel right now, but the plan is to get someone in as a technician or a mechanic, someone who won't arouse too much suspicion if you are caught talking. You'll just have to wait to be contacted. By the way, who is Aunt Lillian?"

"You've been talking to Dom," Hawke sighed deeply and fixed cold, steely eyes on Archangel.

"Indeed."

"How is he?" There was genuine interest in the younger man's voice now.

"Missing you," Archangel confirmed. "He's been calling my office every two hours since you went AWOL."

"And you told him what?"

"Nothing. Naturally I had to act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened during our last liaison, and kind of put the hard word on him about why he was calling and why he thought I might have had something to do with your sudden disappearance."

"And he told you I was out of town. Visiting Aunt Lillian, right?"

"Right."

"It's a code Dom and I have used for years. If ever I ran across a lead about St John and didn't want to get Dom upset or worried about what I might be getting involved in, I would leave him a message about visiting Aunt Lillian, and he would know to cover my back …. And, to stay out of it."

"So, poor Dominic is under the impression that you have gone off on your own somewhere, chasing down a lead on your brother. Good. Let's leave it that way."

"He's ok though, isn't he?"

"Sure," Archangel assured now and Hawke nodded gently. "If you can measure Santini's health and wellbeing based on his persistence and volume, I'd say he's in the pink."

"So how was it?" Archangel asked with genuine interest after a lengthy silence in which Hawke tried to cover his concern for his old friend by yawning long and loud.

He regarded Hawke with a critical eye, noting the scowl that settled on his handsome, chiselled features, but also the elation sparkling in his deep blue eyes, that he simply could not hide.

"You seem to have come through it unscathed."

"It was ok."

"You passed A1. Congratulations."

"Thanks," Hawke settled back in his seat allowing his head to fall back against the seat headrest and closed his eyes now.

"It's quite an achievement."

"For a soft civilian," Hawke muttered, eyes still closed.

"You made quite a good impression, got a highly commended from the base CO and an invitation back any time you need it. So …. You planning to re-enlist when all this is over and done with?"

"Not a chance. I told you, I already served my time," Hawke opened his eyes once more to glower at Archangel. "So don't make volunteering me for military service a bad habit."

"And Roper was helpful?"

"Yeah. He was fine. Made things a little easier, and it was great to see young String and Nhi again. Roper's a fine man. A great instructor and a good husband and father."

"Sounds like you made a friend."

"Don't sound so surprised, Michael. It's not beyond my capabilities. To make friends, you know."

"It also sounds like you enjoyed yourself."

"Yeah …. Well …. It's kinda nice to know that I can still cut it," Hawke admitted ruefully. "I did what I needed to do to get through it. It doesn't mean that I want to make a career out of it. Now, is there anything else about Roger Dobbs that I should know?"

"No. I think that's about it, but if something does crop up …. Wing it."

"Wing it?"

"Wing it."

"Michael …."

"Maybe you should get a little rest now, Major. We'll be there in about an hour or so and you will need to have all your wits about you, if you are going to make a good first impression on Captain Campbell, but you have time for a little power nap before we do a little last minute cramming. Pop quiz, to see how much you remember about the rest of the gang there at Thunderbird. I hope you've been doing your homework, Roger."

Archangel watched the muscles along Hawke's jaw line working furiously as he bit back whatever it was he had been about to say, and smiled smugly to himself, as the younger man did as he was instructed and forced himself to relax in his seat, his eyes closing at last.

They spent the rest of the journey in silence, Archangel never quite sure if Hawke really was sleeping as soundly as he appeared to be, and hoping that the younger man would swiftly get to the bottom of the problems troubling the Thunderbird Project so that life could quickly return to normal, for all of them.


	5. Chapter 5

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Four**

"Here, sleeping beauty."

Instantly alert, Stringfellow Hawke felt the slight warmth and gentle pressure of someone lightly touching the back of his left hand. He recognised the soft, low, alto tones of Marella, and opened his eyes to find her smiling gently down at him, and holding out a cup of strong, black coffee to him.

"Where are we?" Even to his own ears, Hawke's voice sounded groggy, gruff and hoarse with sleep, and he wondered how long he had been out of it.

"Somewhere over Death Valley. Approximately fifteen minutes from your drop off point," she told him as he took the coffee from her and took a sip, grateful for the immediate kick it gave to him as it rushed directly through his empty stomach and straight into his blood stream.

"Relax, we have plenty of time," Marella told him as he straightened a little in his seat.

"And lots more work for you to catch up on," Archangel drawled from over her shoulder. "I haven't forgotten about that pop quiz."

Hawke sipped his coffee and watched as Marella returned to her seat and retrieved her briefcase from the storage locker over head, then set it down on the seat, flipped it open and pulled out a thin pile of familiar looking buff coloured folders, setting them down on the small table in front of Archangel, who caught Stringfellow Hawke eying them with suspicion and distaste.

"More homework?" The younger man drawled.

"Dossiers on the other pilots in the programme," Marella advised. "Service records and background."

"Nothing immediately jumps out as suspicious. Or out of the ordinary," Archangel added now. "We thought that you might find it useful to know a little more about the people you are going to be living in close quarters with for the next little while."

"Thanks."

"Now we need to know just how much you remember."

"How long do I have? To catch up?"

"We're flying in a holding pattern for now, circling just out of range of the airport, dumping fuel according to the pilot, so I guess as long as you need. Bearing in mind that you are due to touch down at 06.30 and your ride is scheduled to collect you at 07.00," Marella informed casually as she turned around and headed back up to the cockpit to check in with the pilot once more.

"What time is it now?"

"05.55," Archangel smothered a grin at Hawke's sour expression. "Plenty of time for you to freshen up, drink your coffee and scan the files."

"Can't you just tell me who is who, and what is what, Michael," Hawke grumbled as he took another welcome sip of the good coffee.

"Yes, I could," Hawke regarded Archangel suspiciously, having expected a rather more sarcastic response. "But I won't."

Hawke let out another shoulder raising sigh and scowled at the older man.

_**That was more like it. **_

"Read," Archangel ordered, ignoring Hawke's penetrating glare. "That way, some of it might just stick between your ears, Major. Roger that, Roger?"

"I need the bathroom."

Hawke rose agilely from his seat, retrieved his canvas kitbag from the overhead compartment over his seat, and after rummaging around in the depths, pulled out a clean dress shirt, toiletries, shaving kit, comb and wash bag and made his way to the small head in the back of the plane, returning to the passenger cabin a short time later with his hair neatly combed, teeth brushed, clean shirt neatly buttoned and shoes shined, all of which seemed to cause Archangel a great deal of amusement.

"Are you done time wasting?" He quipped as Hawke sat down wearily in his seat, and eyed the pile of files still sitting on the table in front of him as if they were radio active. "Know your enemy, Hawke."

"You'd better start calling me Major Dobbs from now on. I need to start getting into character."

"My how Hollywood does rub off," Archangel smiled.

"Let's hope I can pull off an Oscar winning performance," Hawke drawled as he reached out and picked up the first file on the pile.

It belonged to Captain Frank Campbell, and Hawke was not surprised by what he saw when he flipped the file open and was confronted with a passport sized photo of the young Army flier.

_**Army Poster Boy.**_

Forcing himself to concentrate, Project Thunderbird's newest recruit, Stringfellow Hawke, now thinking of himself as Major Roger Dobbs, immersed himself in the dossiers, quickly scanning each file, committing to memory as best he could the salient points of each of the other pilot's service records, trying to remember each of their faces, knowing that at the beginning, he would not be expected to know any of them but that Archangel had been correct when he had suggested that it might be wise to know what he was up against.

As he read, then discarded a file, Archangel picked it up and also scrutinized the file, calling out off the cuff questions about the officer it belonged to, requiring Dobbs to answer without having time to think too long about it, smiling softly to himself as the young man rattled off facts succinctly, and correctly.

_**He would do.**_

_**No doubt about it.**_

_**He was ready.**_

"Time to put on your seatbelts, gentlemen. We're coming in to land," Marella suddenly appeared in the cockpit doorway, and Dobbs lifted his gaze from the dossier he was reading and acknowledged her with a curt nod.

"Got any last minute instructions for me, Michael?" Dobbs asked, rising from his seat and reaching out for his kitbag once more, as Marella wrestled to open the hatch for him. The aircraft had finally touched down on the landing strip and was coming to a standstill, again, only long enough for him to disembark.

"Don't blow it," Archangel handed Hawke his sealed orders and watched the younger man stow them in the inside pocket of his dress uniform jacket.

"Right."

_**That's your speciality, Michael.**_

Major Roger Dobbs then stood briefly to attention and offered the government agent a crisp salute and then after offering Marella a confident wink, he exited the jet and walked briskly out of the aircraft's path as it once again circled, and taxied back along the runway, immediately feeling sweat break out on his brow, making his clean shirt cling to his chest as the heat of the day made its self felt.

He watched as the small pristine white jet gained speed and lifted off gracefully, quickly disappearing into the wavering, shimmering heat rising from the nearby desert, and for one brief moment, Dobbs questioned the wisdom of what he was about to do.

Then, after drawing in a deep breath and letting it out as a sigh of resignation, he picked up his kitbag, tossed it over his shoulder and turned around to begin walking to the small cluster of airport buildings, whistling softly under his breath as he walked purposefully across the tarmac.

The tune immediately recognisable _…. "We're in the Army now …."_


	6. Chapter 6

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Five**

Somewhere in Death Valley, California.

_**All hope abandon ye who enter here .…**_

Major Roger Dobbs read the sign which had been nailed somewhat crookedly on to a bleached and weathered wooden post just outside the wire fencing that marked the dividing line between the Naval Weapons Testing Station at China Lake, and the rough dirt service road that lead to the compound that housed Project Thunderbird.

And found himself hoping that it was someone's idea of a sick joke.

"Welcome to hell, Sir," Captain Frank Campbell muttered as he took the left fork in the road and the guard posted on duty at the barbed wire fence and gate house closed the barrier behind them, with a finality that sent a shiver down Dobbs spine.

The open topped jeep, Campbell driving, bounced and rocked along the rough dirt road, tossing the Major and Captain around so roughly that Dobbs was forced to reach up and grab hold of the metal doorframe just to stay in his seat, Marella's coffee sloshing around in his otherwise empty stomach and threatening to make a reappearance any minute.

From what he had seen so far, Major Dobbs found himself to be in complete agreement.

He had gone straight to hell.

_**Do not pass go …. Do not collect two hundred dollars ….**_

The desert heat was unbelievable.

No wonder they called it Death Valley.

Dobbs suspected that if you got caught out here without food, water or cover, then you would not last very long.

All you would have for company would be scorpions, snakes and lizards, the odd lonesome wolf or coyote ….

And maybe, just before you checked out, throat burning, blood boiling, skin cracked and blistered, tongue swollen and black ...

A few buzzards, circling, lazily, over head.

So far, most of what he had seen had been flat, sterile, featureless desert, not so very different to what he saw whenever he flew over it in Airwolf.

The one comforting thought that remained with him since starting this journey, the fact that the Lady was safely tucked away in the Lair, which was only a short drive away, on the other side of this sprawling wasteland, on the Nevada side, in the Valley of the Gods, should he need to get to her in a hurry.

But, there now appeared a small range of mountains, pale blue and purple, low on the distant horizon, to his right, shimmering in the mid morning heat rising off the desert floor.

The glare made his eyes ache, despite the fact that he had donned his flying shades for protection before he had jumped into the jeep beside Campbell.

He was sweating so badly he felt like he had just stepped out of the shower. Roasting like a Thanks Giving turkey, and it wasn't even nine o'clock yet.

He was forcibly reminded of Red Star and the lab out at Devils Anvil.

And naturally, Airwolf.

Which reminded him of yet another desert.

Libya ….

And Gabrielle ….

Dragging his thoughts back to the here and now, he reminded himself that he had supposedly been born in Arizona, and would, therefore, be expected to be able to deal with the heat like a native.

Thus far, he hadn't had much of an opportunity to test out his new persona.

Captain Frank Campbell had greeted him with a perfunctory salute and then had spent the first part of the trip with small talk, enquiring as to the smoothness of Dobbs' journey, passing on his opinion of the base facilities, the other pilots and the top brass, but when the highway gave way to desert road and the black top disintegrated into dust, he was forced to spend the remainder of the journey in silence, the rough terrain and the open topped jeep making any kind of conversation completely pointless, unless you enjoyed chewing on sand.

When he had stared at the surrounding desert for so long that he thought that his eyeballs would dry up and roll out of his head, Roger Dobbs began to cast furtive sideways glances out of the corner of his eye at his driver, Captain Frank Campbell.

_**Poster Boy in person.**_

He was blond.

Very blond. In fact his hair was so blond it was almost white. The archetypical Viking.

For just one moment, Dobbs had found himself wondering if the young man might even be an albino, but had then noted that his eyes were a pale, watery green colour.

He was also tall, taller than Dobbs himself, nudging six four at least, and slim but with well developed chest and arm muscles.

A football player, Dobbs found himself wondering.

He was also young.

Very young.

_**Does your Mommy know you're out kid?**_ Dobbs thought sarcastically, guessing that the young man beside him couldn't be more than twenty five.

Making him almost ten years Dobbs' junior.

And making the Major feel like Methuselah himself.

_**Granddaddy ….**_

He had known that he might have a few years on the other guys ….

But not an entire decade.

_**What in the hell would they talk about?**_

Feeling more and more like he was about to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb, Dobbs returned his attention to the scenery, hanging on to the doorframe and trying not to give into the desire to throw up.

After what seemed like an eternity, he saw something beginning to emerge on the horizon and squinted to try to get a better view.

Fearing that the heat had addled his brain already and he was seeing mirages.

No ….

Growing slowly out of the endless mesa, emerging from the distant horizon and shimmering between distant dunes and the odd patch of hard desert scrub ….

Project Thunderbird.

Dobbs sat up straighter in his seat and squinted even harder. He could not believe that the small cluster of cinder block, and white washed adobe buildings constituted a project the size of Thunderbird.

As they crested a small rise, he spotted another U shaped block of buildings which reminded him of the sheds and hangars back at Heatham that had housed the jets and jeeps and utility vehicles.

There was one major difference here.

The silence.

Unlike any other military base Dobbs had ever fetch up in, this one was as quiet as the grave.

Deserted.

No engine sounds.

No raised human voice.

Not even so much as the sound of a distant radio playing the latest hit record.

No obvious sign of habitation at all.

Everything was still, save for the occasional whisper of air. Not really a breeze, more like the desert exhaling.

As the jeep rumbled to a halt along side the main building, Roger Dobbs had never felt more isolated from the rest of the world in his entire life.

"Welcome to USS Neptune," Frank Campbell sneered as he set the parking brake and turned his attention to his passenger, as the dust began to slowly settle around them. "Bit remote," he grinned now, revealing twin rows of perfect pearly white teeth.

"You can say that again, soldier," Dobbs mumbled under his breath.

"Indeed," Campbell continued, leaving Dobbs unsure if the younger man had overheard his remark or not. "Scuttlebutt has it that this place is so far off the map, Naval Supplies think we're an aircraft carrier, somewhere out in the middle of the South China Seas," he chuckled at his own joke now, dashing away a trickle of perspiration from his brow.

"USS Neptune?"

"Yes Sir. That's what the Navy guys call it, but us regular Joes, landlubbers all, call it Camp Scorpion. Mostly because you have to keep a close eye out for the little buggers, or one morning you might wake up dead," he quipped.

"I'll bear that in mind."

"The flash flyboys from the USAF call the project Icarus. They're all convinced we are all gonna crash and burn."

"Scuttlebutt?"

"Navy parlance, Sir."

"I know what it is, Captain," Dobbs sighed impatiently. "Last time I looked you were wearing Army colours, soldier."

"Well Sir, if I might be so bold …. Around here, the Navy runs the show."

"And I'll just bet they're a happy band of sailors …. My guess is most of them didn't join the Navy to see the desert."

"No Sir."

"Oh well …. At least we won't be in danger of drowning any time soon."

_**Unless you counted drowning in your own perspiration that was. **_He thought sourly to himself.

"No Sir, best get in out of this heat."

"Where the hell is everyone anyway? It's like one of those Hollywood ghost towns around here." And just to prove his point, out of the corner of his eye he spotted a couple of tumbleweeds as they rolled by, caught by a desert devil.

_**Not that he had expected to be greeted by a marching band ….**_

"Downstairs, Sir."

"Downstairs?" Dobbs frowned.

"You'll see for yourself in a minute, Sir. This is the main administration block. You'll need your orders. My job is to deliver you to Colonel Jardine's office, but after that, I'm afraid you're on your own. I've got a hot date with the centrifuge at 10.00," Campbell explained, hopping out of the jeep now and scooping Dobbs' kitbag out of the back.

"I know it's a little out of the ordinary, with you being a Major and all, but living space is at a premium, so if things go according to plan, you'll be bunking in with me. Unless you step out of line, things are pretty relaxed. They've encouraged us all to mix, try to blur the lines between the different services, after all, here we are all in the same boat, all have the same goal. Building up camaraderie. Here it's not them and us. It's just us."

"Thanks for the heads up, Captain."

Campbell began to walk toward the double glass doors in the middle of the single storey cement block building, leaving Dobbs with no choice but to follow him.

"No special privileges here," The young man continued, stopping to open the door for Dobbs now. "We're all in this together, and we all try to make the best of it, because there isn't a whole lot of other choice."

"So noted," Dobbs ducked inside and immediately noticed the difference in temperature.

It was like stepping out of a blast furnace, straight into a refrigerated truck, Dobbs found himself thinking as he felt the goose bumps erupting on his forearms, and spotted the ailing, aging air conditioning unit on the wall, rattling and wheezing asthmatically as it laboured to keep the air cool.

"I'll make sure your kitbag gets to your bunk, Sir, Accommodation block B, Section 3, Room 12."

"Thanks." Dobbs responded absently, his attention now drawn to the close circuit television camera that was trained on the two men, tracking their every move as they began to walk down a short, brightly illuminated corridor, toward a set of orange painted elevator doors.

Dobbs felt his heart beginning to beat just a little faster in his chest as he finally began to understand where he was, and the enormity of the operation that was Project Thunderbird.

The two men stopped outside the elevator doors and Campbell momentarily fished around inside his shirt collar before pulling out a thin white plastic card, much like a credit card, with tiny holes punched intermittently all across it, attached to a chain around his neck, which he then ran through a small black scanner box on the wall beside the elevator doors, which opened after the briefest pause, allowing both men to step inside.

Roger Dobbs finally understood where exactly he was, as he felt the elevator car plunge downward, leaving his stomach floating somewhere on the ceiling.

This must have once been an underground nuclear facility.

Not a missile launching facility, because Dobbs had not seen any sign of missile silos up there on the surface, which would have tipped him off immediately as to the kind of facility Thunderbird was.

A fall out bunker, perhaps?

A command post, for the military or the government of the day to operate from, in the case of a nuclear attack.

Nuclear war ….

Obviously, at some point the Navy had inherited the facility and converted it for its own use, but had then found that they no longer had a use for it and Project Thunderbird had taken over where they had left off, converting it to their own needs, removing almost all signs of its existence from the surface.

As soon as the elevator car doors opened, Roger Dobbs could sense the difference compared with topside.

Twenty five levels down, he could feel the power of human activity, the energy thrumming through the walls and the floors, the air charged with the quiet, organized hustle and bustle of human beings going about their daily lives, and again it hit him just how big an operation Project Thunderbird was.

And what a daunting task lay ahead of him, to seek out a possible traitor or saboteur.

How many people did it take to operate a facility this size efficiently?

Dobbs didn't dare contemplate.

And each and every one of them could be a potential suspect.

_**Gee thanks, Archangel. **_

_**Find me an easy job, why don't you!**_

_**I know you said it could take a while, but I could be here until hell freezes over before I get to the bottom of this.**_

Unless, of course, someone very stupidly showed their hand

Or, he died.

A shiver ran down Dobbs spine then that had absolutely nothing to do with the frigid air being circulated around the building.

Compared with topside, the noise that suddenly greeted him was deafening, machinery humming, human voices, telephones ringing, even someone whistling softly in a distant corridor.

"The old man is expecting you, Sir," Frank Campbell stepped off the elevator and began to walk purposefully toward a small reception area.

"Hi Mary, this is Major Dobbs, US Army, reporting," Campbell leaned casually against the raised reception desk and leered at the pretty young woman working there. She was a petite blonde and extremely pretty, clad in casual, but smart civilian garb and greeted the young Army officer with a warm smile of her own, obviously not immune to his charms. However, the smile that she offered Dobbs in greeting was much cooler, although it was polite.

"This is where I leave you for now, Major."

"Thanks for the ride."

"Good luck. You're gonna need it."

Campbell suddenly stood to rigid attention, throwing back his shoulders and thrusting out his chin, as he offered Roger Dobbs a crisp salute, which the older man returned with equal precision and vigour, then Campbell scooped up Dobbs kitbag, slinging it casually over his shoulder as he turned on his heels and marched briskly down the corridor once more, leaving Dobbs with a small frown marring his brow as he tried to work out if he had really heard the younger man's parting shot.

"Welcome aboard, Major," The young woman behind the desk was speaking to him now and he turned to acknowledge her.

She was indeed very pretty, in an obvious kind of way, wearing lots of make up and a provocative outfit of low cut white blouse and tight fitting, short, narrow, navy blue skirt. Her voice was soft and pitched somewhere in the middle ranges, and her accent was distinctly East coast, Dobbs noted as, out of the corner of his eye he continued to watch Captain Frank Campbell, as he marched down the corridor and disappeared around the corner without so much as a backward glance.

"Major?"

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"My name is Mary Harmon, General Administration Assistant," she introduced herself and reached out her hand to him. Roger Dobbs thought that she wanted to shake his hand in introduction, and he reached out his hand to shake hers in return, and then frowned when he found her grinning back at him in amusement.

"Your orders, please, Major."

"Of course," Dobbs reached into the inside pocket of his dress uniform jacket and pulled out the papers that Archangel had handed to him just before he had disembarked from the jet.

"Thank you. Please take a seat, and I will let Colonel Jardine know that you are waiting."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

Roger Dobbs politely took a seat in a small waiting area, as Mary Harmon picked up a telephone on her desk and dialled, speaking softly into the receiver, briefly, before setting it back down on its cradle and walking gracefully, and it had to be said, with a very sexy little wiggle to her hips, away from the reception area, to stop before a solid looking dark wood door, knock and then enter, briefly.

The door had a shiny silver plaque slap bang in the middle of it, but Dobbs was too far away and at the wrong angle to read it. However, he didn't need to be a rocket scientist to guess to whom it was allocated.

Mary reappeared after only a few seconds and returned to her desk, offering Dobbs another cool, polite smile, as she retook her seat and busied herself once more, obviously not interested in making small talk.

That suited Dobbs.

He felt like he hadn't had a chance to draw in breath.

Sitting as straight in his chair as he could manage, he suddenly felt a wave of weariness wash over him.

He was tired. He hadn't slept properly since the night before last, and the 'power nap' he had snatched on the jet hadn't really done much to help boost his energy levels, and the heat of the journey had drained what was left.

He was hungry too, suddenly realising that he hadn't taken on board anything more substantial than coffee since dinner the previous evening, which Nhi had served quite early, so that young String could join them and spend some time with him before being packed off to bed.

He also needed to get cleaned up after his journey, feeling in need of a shower and a fresh set of clothes, because he was sure that he was wearing most of Death Valley, right down to the underwear he normally would not have been seen dead wearing and which clung uncomfortably everywhere.

He hated feeling uncomfortable and at a disadvantage, but he was quickly coming to the conclusion, as he sat waiting to be summoned, that that was exactly what Colonel Jardine wanted.

"Major?"

Roger Dobbs looked up from scrutinising the layer of dust on his shoes to find Mary Harmon beckoning him through the now open hatch of the reception desk, and indicating toward Colonel Jardine's now open door.

"Thank you, Ma'am."

Dobbs rose from his seat, removed his shades, squared back his shoulders, thrust out his chin and puffed out his chest as he marched purposefully into Colonel Thomas Jardine's office.

"Major Roger Dobbs reporting for duty, Sir!" Dobbs rapped out in clipped tones and offered the heavy set, balding man who was seated on the other side of a wide, heavy dark wood desk a precise salute.

Jardine took his time in acknowledging the presence of his newest recruit, his attention apparently firmly fixed on Dobbs orders which now lay open on the desk before him, alongside a familiar looking buff coloured folder.

As he stood to rigid attention, waiting, Dobbs tried to get a beat on the older man.

He was much like any other senior ranking officer Dobbs had come across, exuding an air of arrogance and self confidence, obviously a man used to giving orders and having those orders obeyed without question.

He was maybe just a little short of six feet tall and carrying a good ten pounds of extra padding around his midriff, his hair was almost all gone and his brow was deeply lined. His hands were big, like bear paws, meaty and strong, and his voice when he did finally speak was deep and scratchy, not unlike Ely Weeks' had been, indicating that he too was a heavy smoker.

"At ease, Major," Jardine finally looked up from the file, after keeping the younger man standing to attention for several minutes. "Just been reading your file," he indicated to the service record folder on his desk now. "Impressive. Three tours of 'Nam? 69' thro '72?"

"Yes Sir!"

"West Point?"

"No Sir. I was in college, but I dropped out and volunteered. You may recall that '69 wasn't a very good year for us out there."

"So you decided to single handedly go save Uncle Sam's butt?"

"Not quite like that, Sir, just wanted to do my bit."

"But three tours? Damn! Must be a sucker for punishment, eh son?"

"Sir, yes Sir!"

"Huey pilot?"

"Sir, yes Sir!"

"Senior Instructor, at Fort Riley, Alabama. Instrumental in helping to set up the training programme for pilots at the Army Aviation Branch, choppers. And fresh from a recertification programme on fixed wing jets over at Heatham."

"Sir, yes Sir!"

"Well, you certainly have the experience. Combat son, no substitute for it."

"Sir, no Sir!" Dobbs agreed.

"But there are no guarantees here, Soldier."

"Sir, no Sir!"

"You'll find that we do things a little differently here, Major," Jardine advised and the expression on his chubby face told the younger man that he did not altogether approve, but had been forced to accept that that was just the way it was.

"Sir?"

"You're used to giving orders. Used to being the instructor. It won't be easy for you to change that mentality, that mind set, and become the student."

"Sir! I have every confidence that I will be able to adapt, Sir."

"Good. However, my guess is that nobody has told you that your being accepted here is not quite a forgone conclusion. _**If**_ you are accepted on to the programme, you will have to hit the ground running, Soldier. There's a lot to learn and you will have a great deal of catching up to do."

"Sir, I am not afraid of hard work, or a challenge, Sir."

"Well, you appear to have the right attitude, but I would expect nothing less from an officer of your experience and calibre. I am counting on you not to let the side down."

"Sir, I will not disappoint the Colonel, Sir."

"We'll see."

"Sir? Permission to ask a question, Sir?"

"Go ahead."

"What did the Colonel mean when he said that my being accepted on to the programme was not a foregone conclusion, Sir?"

"It means that you have to scrub up, sonny. There are certain criteria that we have to make sure you meet, certain standards, and the bar has quite rightly been set very high on this one. For your own sake as much as ours, you have to meet these criteria before you will be allowed to join the other trainees. The standard is very high, Major, and you should consider yourself to be highly regarded by the top brass to have even been put up as a candidate. It won't be a reflection on your physical fitness or skills as a pilot if you don't make it through," Jardine assured now, seeming to be under the impression that Dobbs needed to hear his reassurances.

Roger Dobbs did not.

His primary object was just to get in and do the job he had been sent here for.

To get to the bottom of the troubles plaguing the project.

His ego would not suffer irreparably if he did not meet the entry standard, he was more than satisfied with the levels of fitness he maintained and knew that he was one of the best pilots out there, military or civilian.

He didn't need his ego stroking, but, he realised, if he didn't qualify, it would be a setback that the Firm and Dr Weeks could ill afford.

One consolation.

The recent medical he had had at Heatham had not highlighted any weaknesses either in his health or his fitness, and Archangel would not have put him through any of this if there was even the slightest doubt that he would not able to make the grade.

"Many much younger men, those considered to be the brightest and the best that the military today has to offer, have flunked out before they even got this far."

Colonel Jardine leaned back in his chair and fixed Dobbs with an earnest expression, and the Major suddenly had the feeling that he was about to get 'the speech', from his CO. The spiel he rattled off to all new recruits to either put them at ease or put the fear of God into them. Every CO did it. They all had a different style and different motivation, but all left the new recruit in no doubt as to how things stood, and how small and insignificant a cog they were in the vast military machine.

"This project has to be for the elitist of the elite, Major," Jardine continued, in full flow now. "It's about all round ability. About making sure that your head, and your body are right for it. It's not about being the strongest, fastest, or the smartest. It's not the damned Olympics. It's not about being a good soldier and a decent human being either. It's about stamina and strength and wits and chutzpah ….

"It's about being strong in mind and body, and knowing your strengths and weaknesses, knowing your limitations. No guts, no Glory is all well and good, but we both know that over confidence and bravado will get you killed in a heartbeat, in a combat situation. Same thing with this new, experimental, aircraft.

"We have to be sure that you can handle yourself, as well as the aircraft and any situation you might find yourself in. We have to count on your ability to make the tough decisions and get the job done. The tough decisions aren't always the right ones, eh, Major?"

"Sir, yes Sir."

"Be proud you got your name on the enrolment list, son. It's one helluvan' achievement to have made it through the gate."

"Sir, thank you, Sir. I consider it an honour to have been put up for the project, Sir," Dobbs intoned, because he sensed that it was what the Colonel was expecting to hear in response to his litany.

"Good. Good. That's the spirit. Well, I would imagine that you could use some sleep, a shower and some chow?"

Roger Dobbs was about to respond with an emphatic 'yes sir', when Jardine cut him off.

"Unfortunately, son, the Navy has other plans for you. Gonna throw you right in at the deep end. No pun intended. Here the heat dictates our routine, and most of what we need to get done topside has to be done very early in the morning, in the late evening or during the night, the rest of the day is taken up with rest periods and spells in the classroom or medical facility. I'm afraid the first order of business for you, Major is a trip down to see the MO."

"The MO, Sir?"

"Yes son, you'll have to complete a full physical evaluation before you will be allowed to join the general population on the base. You got a problem with that, soldier?"

"Sir, no Sir! It's just that I just had a complete physical at Heatham." Dobbs pointed out.

"Unfortunately, your medical records haven't quite caught up with you, Major, and I am afraid that no matter how thorough those Air Force fellas were over there at Heatham, our requirements are rather more demanding. We have our own criteria, Dobbs, and if you don't measure up and pass A1, you won't be allowed to stay."

"Sir."

"You will get a rest period after the physical, and then, if you pass muster, you can chow down with the rest of the guys. Have a chance to meet them all before you begin working with them."

"Sir, thank you, Sir."

"I'm sure that Mary will have organised for someone to escort you to the medical facility, and I will see you again, whichever way it turns out. Good luck, son."

"Sir, thank you, Sir."

"Dismissed!"

After giving the Colonel another crisp salute, Dobbs wheeled around on his heels and marched in double time back out of the Colonel's office, with a heavy heart.

He might have one foot in the door, but that was all.

_**Damn Archangel!**_

He hadn't said anything about the possibility that he might not meet the required physical fitness levels and not get past the first hurdle.

_**Calm down, you know you can do this.**_

Dobbs told himself sternly as he marched back to the reception area. He was just feeling miserable and frustrated because he was tired and hungry and in need of a refreshing shower, and was in no mood to be poked or prodded and jabbed with needles.

He was right about Jardine.

Obviously the man wanted to keep him feeling at a disadvantage.

"Major Dobbs," Mary Harmon addressed him now, clearing her throat to get his attention.

"Ma'am."

"This is Airman Schneider. He will escort you to sickbay. That's what you Army fellas call the infirmary, I believe?"

"Yes Ma'am. Thank you."


	7. Chapter 7

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Six**

Dobbs followed the fresh faced young man, who was kitted out in an all in one dark blue boiler suit, wondering, as he fell in beside the spotty youth, and followed him through a maze of chilled, featureless, endless white corridors to the medical wing, if he was even old enough to shave yet.

Unusually, for most teenagers he had encountered, this one was tight lipped and suffered from a deplorable lack of curiosity, not asking even one pointless question, or even attempting to make small talk.

So, it was with relief that Dobbs spotted the red cross painted on the wall outside the medical facility and waited outside as the young man poked his head around the heavy swing door, then ducked inside briefly, returning with a sour faced older woman clad in a white dress and flat black leather shoes.

She did not hide her appraising look, running her eyes up and down the Major, hungrily, and out of the corner of his eye, Dobbs spotted the teenager smirking, the first sign of any kind of emotion from the young Airman.

"I can handle it from here," the woman gave the teenager a stern glare and he immediately took the hint, striding briskly back down the corridor after offering Dobbs a pathetic effort of a salute.

"You, flyboy, are with me," The woman addressed Dobbs now in a tone bordering on boredom and fixed him with what was obviously meant to be the kind of glare to peel paint off walls, but it had no effect on Dobbs.

"Ma'am," he muttered as he ducked under her arm and entered the examination room, trying to decide if she was a nurse, or the doctor.

Like the Colonel, she seemed to be under the impression that she was a big fish in a little pool.

Used to being in charge and being obeyed, without question.

Once inside the examination room, Dobbs was surprised by what he saw.

It wasn't quite like any medical facility he had ever seen before. Military, or civilian.

Oh yes, there was the usual basic stuff, metal framed bed and screens, trolleys loaded with medical equipment like stainless steel kidney dishes and plastic vacuum sealed hypodermic syringes, thermometers, blood testing equipment and bottles of distilled water and antiseptic, and the place smelled medical, even if he could not quite identify the particular odour that assailed his nostrils and hung heavily in the air.

There were cupboards and shelves running along one wall, filled with various medical paraphernalia, and charts depicting various parts of the human body tacked to the walls.

However, beyond the examination area, the room before him was vast, and housed what seemed to be the latest, state of the art gym equipment.

He spotted a treadmill, and static bicycle and even a rowing machine. There was a climbing frame, and ropes dangling from the ceiling, and a weights bar and assorted weights to slip onto the ends of the bar, and crash mats scattered haphazardly over the floor.

Roger Dobbs heart sank even lower as he allowed his imagination to conjure up the kind of physical evaluation he would be expected to participate in.

"Hey, jet jockey, you gonna stand there with your mouth open all day?"

The woman's haughty expression and sarcastic tone were not wasted on Dobbs, and he found himself wondering if this was the Navy's equivalent of a Drill Sergeant.

She was regarding him with a degree of impatience and amusement as Dobbs moved out of the doorway and allowed her to pass. Middle aged, with harsh features and mouse brown hair that was showing signs of greying, her eyes also grey, but so pale they appeared almost colourless as they drilled into him now, an expression settling on her face that told him in no uncertain terms that she did not suffer fools gladly, in deed, she probably eat Rear Admirals and Five Star Generals for breakfast without pausing for a breath.

Her 'don't mess with me, sonny' attitude grated on Dobbs nerves, after all, he was a seasoned officer, not some raw recruit who just walked into boot camp for the first time.

_**Ok Stonewall, two can play at that game**_. He thought belligerently to himself.

"Haul ass, Major. After all, neither one of us is getting any younger," she glowered at him as she went to stand beside the low metal framed hospital bed and patted the smooth white sheet covered mattress to indicate that he was expected to settle there.

"Park it."

"Yes Ma'am."

He threw her his best withering glower and let out a deep sigh as he marched over to the bed, where he grudgingly hopped up and fixed her with an expression that invited her to 'bring it on'.

"That's better," she told him, but the look he saw on her face said, is that the best you can do, as she struggled to hide her amusement.

"Ma'am."

"A little co-operation goes a along way, soldier. We're all co-operating our collective little asses off here at holiday camp Neptune," she wrestled with a smile then, and for the first time, Dobbs began to wonder if she wasn't just stringing him along.

"I'm Kelly …. Nora Kelly."

"Doc."

She suddenly let out a loud shout of laughter, throwing her head back as Dobbs frowned at her, most disconcerted by her stranger behaviour.

_**Man, what the hell is going on around here? **_He thought silently to himself, wondering if the military had suddenly gone nuts when he wasn't looking.

"I'm not a doctor, kid, but thanks for the promotion. I am Lieutenant Nora Kelly, US Navy, and Registered Nurse. I'm here to get the ball rolling. Check under the hood and make sure your engine isn't running too fast or too hot," she gave a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows now, before adding. "So, I'm thinking you're a little over dressed. Need a little help, honey?"

"Thank you Lieutenant, but I think I can handle that myself," Dobbs grunted, just as the swing door on the other side of the room opened with a soft swish and another, slightly younger female, clad in a white lab coat, over a pale blue blouse and charcoal grey slacks entered the room.

"You're not gonna give me any trouble are you Soldier? Or do I have send for the Marines?"

"Ma'am."

"I'm sure the Major knows the drill, Lieutenant."

This came from the other woman now, who was wrestling to smother a grin as she watched her colleague's antics.

They didn't call the Lieutenant, Nora the Man-eater for nothing.

And she appeared to be in fine form with the latest recruit.

"I'm sure he knows all the moves, Doc," Lieutenant Kelly spluttered, and jammed a thermometer into Roger Dobbs mouth, effectively silencing him, and he rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation.

_**Women.**_

"I'll take it from here, thank you Lieutenant."

There was a little more authority in the other woman's voice now, and although she was still grinning mischievously, the older woman nodded softly.

"I'd appreciate it if you could chase up Major Anders blood results."

"Certainly Doctor."

"Bad girl, Nora. Very bad." Dr Sara Sykes whispered as her colleague brushed past her on the way out.

She hadn't known the older woman for long, having only been on the base herself for just over a week, but she had quickly warmed to the older woman's outrageous behaviour and wicked sense of humour.

Nora Kelly was battle hardened, having a Marine Gunnery Sergeant for a husband and four teenage boys to her credit. She had seen most everything that life had to offer and nothing got by her.

However, the expression on the new arrival's face indicated to the doctor that he did not appreciate the woman's antics as much as her colleagues did.

_**Sense of humour failure.**_ Was her immediate diagnosis, as she took in the stone face and rigid stance.

_**Tough guy, huh, well, we'll soon see.**_

"Spoil sport," Kelly hissed back, a huge grin splitting her face now.

"I can't leave you alone for five minutes. Poor guy, you almost have him in tears," Sykes teased, smothering a chuckle then flicked her gaze to take in the disapproving glower still haunting the Major's otherwise handsome features, and then back to Nora Kelly.

"Can't blame a girl for trying. I'll be back shortly. Think you can behave yourself while I'm gone?" Nora Kelly wiggled her eyebrows suggestively now, casting hungry glances back at the man perched on the edge of the bed.

"Protocol dictates that you have to be here Nora, for both of our sakes, his and mine. Can't have a male and a female in the same room together, alone. What do they think, we can't control our animal urges? Remind me again, what century is this?"

"Honey, what planet are you from? If he's so inclined he won't give a damn about protocol," Nora's smile was very wicked now, but then she grew serious as she lowered her voice.

"He might be quite a looker, kiddo, but remember, he's also a fighting machine, a trained killer. And he's a man, what other excuse do they need to do the caveman routine?"

"So noted, Mom. And that is why the Regs say I need a chaperone," Sykes reminded ruefully.

"Back in about five minutes. If he tries to make a move, I'll put the moves on him, and I don't mean lip locking, honey! These hands are registered as lethal weapons."

"Courtesy of the 'Gunny' no doubt."

"He does have his uses," Kelly retorted as she flounced out of the examination room.

"You my friend, are grade A1 certifiable," Sara Sykes had to jam a balled fist into her mouth to stop herself from giggling out loud.

It didn't seem possible, but the older woman got more outrageous every day.

"Right, Major," she turned around at last, when she had gotten her mirth under control.

The new man was sitting rigidly on the edge of the metal framed bed, and as she turned around to face him, Sara found herself hoping that her expression and demeanour would give him the impression that she was trustworthy and knew what she was doing, but his expression remained stone faced and grim, indicating to her that he had reached the end of his level of tolerance.

"Dobbs. Roger Dobbs, Ma'am." he responded gruffly, around the thermometer still sticking out of the side of his mouth.

"Sorry about Nora, Major," the lady doctor offered him a pleasant smile as she crossed the room. "She doesn't get out much, I'm afraid," she took the thermometer out of his mouth and scanned the reading, before setting it aside and taking his right wrist gently in her hand and feeling for his pulse.

"I wonder why that is?" Dobbs let out a huge, shoulder raising sigh and arched an eyebrow sardonically. "Ma'am," he concluded through clenched teeth.

"The Lieutenant's heart is in the right place, Major. Things are inclined to get just a little tense and serious around here sometimes. Nora just likes to try to lighten the mood a little. She wasn't being disrespectful of your rank, Major. It's just her way of breaking the ice. Anyway, I'm Dr Sara Sykes, and you can quit calling me Ma'am. Ma'am is for the Queen of England," she told him, following his eyes as they searched the front of her pale blue blouse beneath her white coat for insignia to indicate her rank.

"And I'm a civilian," she told him in a soft, low, sexy voice, as she released his wrist and now offered her hand in introduction.

Dobbs accepted her handshake, taking her hand in his own, surprised by how small and delicate it seemed in comparison to his own slightly larger one, her pale skin soft, her flesh warm, her fingers long and delicate and bearing no rings, but her handshake was surprisingly firm, if brief, not allowing her hand to linger overly long in his.

"So, Major, I guess you know the drill?"

"Yes, Ma'am, erm, I mean, doctor. I just had a complete physical about three weeks ago."

"Not like this one," she grinned, then turned away to pick up a clipboard and pen. "I'll be making notes as we go, Major, and they will be attached to your medical records, when they finally arrive."

He nodded in understanding.

"Ok then, shall we get started?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he responded automatically, then caught himself up and offered her a weak smile of apology. "Sorry, old habits die hard …."

"Whatever makes you feel comfortable, Major," she smiled benignly at him as she looked up from noting down his temperature and pulse on her clipboard then, and Dobbs took a little time to look at her properly now.

She was tall, as tall as he was, or maybe even a fraction of an inch taller, he estimated, but then she was wearing shoes with a medium heel.

And she was probably around the same age too, he guessed. Early thirties.

She was no real beauty …. Although he didn't mean that unkindly.

She was not beautiful in the classical sense.

But there was something about her.

Slender, but kind of athletic.

Graceful and economical in her movements.

He wouldn't have been at all surprised to learn that she kept herself in shape with running or swimming, or playing some kind of sport.

She moved with fluid grace.

Maybe she was a dancer.

She wouldn't turn heads or stop traffic, but her open features were pleasant enough, her skin pale and flawless and her silky hair was so black it looked almost navy blue as it shimmered every time she moved her head and the light played on it. It must have been quite long, he surmised, for she wore it in an intricate coil in the nape of her neck, a chignon, he had heard it referred to sometimes, but tiny wisps had escaped and caressed her ears and long, slender, graceful white neck.

Her eyes were the darkest shade of blue he had ever seen, a deep, rich, velvety violet colour that seemed to change with the light. Getting darker, more like Navy, or midnight blue. Maybe even black, like onyx or jet or obsidian ….

And there was something odd about her accent too.

He couldn't place it.

Her accent had a hint of California to it, but there was something else. Underneath. Something subtle, and different ….

Foreign.

No it wasn't that.

It wasn't so much in the way she sounded as the way she used language.

It wasn't unattractive. Quite aristocratic.

No.

Wait.

He had it now.

Anglicized.

She spoke with a gentle American accent, but she used language like a native Englishman.

Thus confirming to anyone who had a good ear, that the two languages were indeed quite different.

He found himself wondering where she had gained that Anglo American accent, and found himself thinking that it suited her, adding to the enigma.

And as their eyes met, he felt a jolt shoot through him, like an electric shock.

"Major?"

She was a very striking woman.

Very striking.

Exotic even.

With a very endearing smile.

Kind of crooked and cute.

And for reasons he could not pin point, she reminded him a lot of Gabrielle.

Although physically, she was hardly like her at all, he told himself sternly.

Gabrielle had been breathtakingly beautiful.

A cloud of fine dark hair, framing a small, pale face with big dark intelligent eyes.

Fragile. Delicate. Sensitive.

Smart, sassy, sexy.

Highly strung.

Brave.

Something about Gabrielle had brought out the caveman in him. Wanting to possess her, and protect her all at the same time.

And now she was dead.

And thinking about her only made the emptiness in his heart feel bigger.

This woman wasn't Gabrielle.

And it wasn't fair to compare the two of them.

He knew nothing about Sara Sykes, after all, only what he had seen so far.

Besides, he wasn't here to admire the view, he told himself sternly, dragging his thoughts back to the present.

She was a doctor.

Their relationship would be that of doctor and patient. Nothing more than mutual respect.

And fleeting.

Oh yes, very fleeting, for he did not intend to spend any more time in the medical facility than was deemed absolutely necessary.

She was also very dignified, and he was impressed with her air of quiet confidence and self assurance. She might be a civilian, but she was obviously used to being in control, in a position of authority within her profession. He did not doubt that when Sara Sykes had something important to say, people listened.

He cast his mind back to the Colonel's speech and wondered if the raised standards he had spoken about also included the support staff, like Dr Sara Sykes. He suspected that it did, and he did not doubt that she was highly competent.

"Major?" She cocked her head slightly to one side, birdlike, as she regarded him thoughtfully, noting the somewhat puzzled and vague expression on his face. "Is there a problem?"

"No Ma'am. Pardon me for asking Ma'am, but are you English? Or maybe you lived in England some time? You've got a little something going on with the accent there," His voice trailed away then, but, much to his surprise, his question brought a wide smile to her lips now.

"You have a very good ear, Major. You're half right," she told him, regarding him thoughtfully and noting the curiosity in his lovely deep blue eyes

"My mother was English and my father was from Minneapolis," she added, wondering why she felt compelled to tell him about her family, and found herself hoping that it might help him to relax a little, and warm to her.

"My Dad was in the Army, served in England during the war, where he met my Mom, and then he got moved around Europe a lot, finally ending up in Germany, which is where I was born."

She grew silent, and solemn for a moment, a sadness reflecting back at him from the depths of those incredible violet eyes.

"Army brat, huh?"

"Yeah."

"And?" he asked softly now, hoping that he wasn't trespassing into painful territory for her.

"Ah …. A little show and tell huh?"

"Ma'am?" He quirked an eyebrow.

"I tell you about myself, you tell me about yourself?"

"Fair's fair."

"Alright. After my parents divorced, when I was eleven, I was raised in England. I lived there with my mother until she died when I was sixteen, and then I came out to live in San Diego with my father, finished my high school education there and then went on to college, pre med and then med school at Stamford," she told him brusquely now, her tone harder than a few moments before, and Dobbs suspected that he had indeed over stepped the mark.

"It's been a while, but I guess the way I use language is influenced by the fact that I lived in Southern England for a long time," she explained matter of factly.

"I'm sorry Ma'am, I didn't mean to pry."

"A little curiosity is a healthy thing, Major," Dobbs nodded his thanks then. "Ok," she drew in a long breath now and grew businesslike once more. "Let's start with a brief medical history, then I'll need to do a thorough physical exam and then we will move on to the tests designed to give us a more complete picture of your general fitness levels, stamina, stress tolerances, lung capacity …."

Roger Dobbs nodded in understanding now.

As Stringfellow Hawke, he had gone through a similar process when he had joined the Airwolf Project.

"If you have any questions, about your health or the physical, please, speak up. I'll do my best to answer them as honestly and plainly as I can. Now, if you could just step over here for a moment …."

She indicated to where a set of weighing scales and a height measuring stick were positioned against the far wall, and Dobbs obediently hopped down off the bed and stepped up onto the scales, while Dr Sykes measured off his height in metres and centimetres and noted his weight, in kilograms, down on her clipboard without comment.

"Ok, you can sit back down again," she told him as she finished scribbling a note down on the clipboard. "Could you please confirm your name, age, date of birth for me?"

"Roger Dobbs, Major, US Army, born July 10, 1950, which makes me 34 years old, ma'am."

"Thank you. Smoke?"

"No, thank you, Ma'am."

"I mean _**do you**_ smoke?" She gave him a pained look as she glanced up from her clipboard once more.

"No Ma'am."

"Drink?"

"From time to time, in moderation. A glass of beer, or wine, with friends."

"So you would say that you are a social drinker?" She was trying to keep her tone neutral, but Dobbs knew what she was getting at.

He was aware that many serving military personnel turned to alcohol in times of crisis.

He also knew they really knew how to let their hair down and that when they socialised, they had quite a capacity for alcohol. He'd seen it back there at Heatham when the guys were winding down after a training flight.

"I guess. I don't use alcohol as a crutch, doctor. I saw early in life what it did to my mother, and vowed that I would never develop enough of a taste for it that I became dependent upon it to simply live from day to day."

"Thank you," she gave him a soft smile of understanding then, before continuing with the next question. "Medication?"

"Only what the MO prescribes …. And, only then, if it is a matter of life and death. I feel the same way about drugs, Ma'am. Any kind of drugs. Don't even like taking an Aspirin unless I really have to," his tone of voice indicated to her that he would rather face a firing squad. "Don't use anything that could cloud my judgement, or slow down my reactions, or that might mean that I would have to stop flying."

"Ok. Any serious illness in the family?"

He was about to respond that his parents had been drowned in a boating accident, then remembered that that was Stringfellow Hawke, not Roger Dobbs.

The Major's father had ridden off into the sunset never to return, before his kid turned two, and his mother, although a chronic alcoholic, had died from breast cancer.

"No need to be embarrassed," she told him, noticing him faltering. "And it doesn't necessarily follow that you will develop the same conditions."

"My mother had a drink problem …. But she died from breast cancer when she was only forty three."

"Dad?"

"Can't say. He checked out of our lives while I was still a baby. Haven't heard from him from that day to this."

"Did you ever try to find him?"

"No Ma'am."

"You were never curious?"

"No Ma'am. Figured he made his feelings clear by staying away. We managed without him. Who is to say, if he had come back, if things would have been better, or worse?"

"Brothers or sisters?" She decided to change the subject now, hearing the note of bitterness in his voice.

"No, Ma'am."

"Have you ever suffered from any serious illness, Major?"

"No Ma'am. I've been pretty lucky. Blessed with good health. Unless you count the injuries I got fighting in 'Nam …. Took a round in the shoulder that finally got me sent home back in '72."

"What about childhood illnesses?"

"The usual, I guess. Nothing to write home about," he shrugged absently now.

"Fine. You look like you work out regularly. What about your diet?"

"Vegetarian, Ma'am."

"Vegan?"

"No. I just don't eat meat. I'm pretty careful, but in the main, other than meat, I eat most things …. In moderation."

"Ok, now I need you to read the eye chart over there. Cover your right eye and read out as many of the letters as you can, then repeat the procedure with your left eye covered."

Roger Dobbs did as he was instructed while Dr Sykes busied herself with gathering together the equipment she would need to progress with the examination, piling things onto a cart.

"Ok," she scribbled the results down on the clipboard, again without comment. "Would you roll up your sleeve for me, please."

Dobbs again did as he was asked and she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm and pumped it up, slipping her stethoscope under the inflated material and the plugs into her ears, then after watching the mercury rise on the gauge, noted down the reading on her clipboard.

"I need your finger."

"Which one?"

"Any one," she smiled softly at him, and her features were instantly transformed, softening into something as heart stoppingly beautiful and enigmatic as the Mona Lisa.

She took his left hand gently in her own and produced a small medical lancet with her right hand.

"This won't hurt," she suddenly jabbed the needle into the soft fleshy pad at the tip of his index finger which instantly blossomed with a spot of bright red blood. "Me anyway," she added under her breath.

"Ouch!" Dobbs yelped, fighting the urge to yank his hand away from her as she squeezed the tiny drop of blood onto a thin white plastic testing strip. "You said it wouldn't hurt," he grumbled as she released his hand at last and slotted the plastic strip into a tiny machine.

"I lied," she turned back, grinning most charmingly as she watched him suck the blood from his fingertip, scowling at her as though she had betrayed him to the enemy.

The small machine let out a high pitched beep and Dr Sykes turned back to glance down at the results.

"Tell me, Major …." Her voice trailed away momentarily as she tried to recall his name.

"Dobbs."

"Major Dobbs, when was the last time you had something to eat?"

"Coffee, this morning."

"I said eat, not drink."

"Dinner …. Last night."

"What time?"

"Seven," he shrugged absently. "Seven thirty …."

"So, more than twelve hours ago, yes?"

"Ma'am."

"That explains it," she let out a deep sigh. "Stay put. I won't be a moment …."

Sara Sykes left the main exam room briefly, rummaging around in her locker in the adjoining office, calling out to him as she did so.

"Are you feeling weak? Dizzy? Lightheaded?"

"No …. No, and no, Ma'am," he called back, a frown puckering his brow as she returned to the exam room.

"But I bet you're feeling hungry. Catch," she tossed something at him, which he deftly caught, instinctively with his right hand.

It was a banana.

He eyed it like it was poisonous before glancing back up at Dr Sykes, catching the amusement dancing in her eyes as she took in the look on his face.

"Your blood glucose levels are a little low, Major. Eat," she put a little more authority in her voice, leaving him in no doubt that it was her way of giving him an order. "That should get you started, but in the meantime, I'll go get Lieutenant Kelly to organise a sandwich or something for you …."

"No need Ma'am. I'm fine. I can wait until chow time …."

"No you can't, and I can't let you begin the stamina tests until your blood glucose levels come up to within normal ranges. You wouldn't last five minutes with your levels as they are now …. Like your car or jet running out of gas," she told him in reasonable tones now. "Can't let you fly if you are prone to hypoglycaemia. In lay mans terms, low blood sugar."

"I'm not," Dobbs told her defiantly now.

"Won't know that for sure until I test you again, after you've had something substantial to eat, and then again after the tests. I'll need to do a whole bunch of glucose tolerance tests too …."

"Is that really necessary, Ma'am?" He regarded her with impatience and more than a hint of horror.

"You bet your ass it is, soldier," The look she gave him in return told him very clearly of her genuine concerns. "At best it could ground you indefinitely. At worst …. Get you an immediate medical discharge from the service. Can't run the risk of you blacking out at thirty thousand feet. Don't think you're rear seat man would appreciate that very much, do you, Major?"

"No Ma'am," he knew that she had a very serious point, but he also knew that she was barking up the wrong tree.

Still she had to be thorough, Dobbs supposed.

"You can't serve if you are confirmed as being diabetic, Major. Along side epilepsy, cardiac irregularities and asthma, it is one of the main conditions that exempt someone from serving," she told him solemnly.

"That's it? End of career? Just like that?"

"Yes Major, just like that," she confirmed.

"But wouldn't they have picked it up, at Heatham? If I did have a problem?" He asked in a low voice, letting her know that he was suitably impressed with her thoroughness, and that he understood why she was taking it so seriously, although from his sour expression, Sara Sykes seriously doubted that he really understood what he could be facing, if it turned out he was diabetic.

"Depends. You could have been borderline for some time without anyone picking it up. Now eat. I won't be a minute …."

Sara Sykes waited until Dobbs reluctantly began to peel the banana and, wrinkling his nose in distaste, took a small bite and chewed on it as if it were sawdust or ashes in his mouth.

"When was the last time you had some proper sack time?" She asked, pausing in the doorway now. "And I don't mean the cat nap you grabbed on the flight in from wherever the hell it was you came in from …."

"Night before last," Dobbs responded around a mouthful of banana.

"Dammit, it's just not good enough!" Sykes raged now. "How can you be expected to perform at your best when you haven't eaten, or slept in almost twenty four hours!"

"I can handle it Ma'am," he assured her. "In a combat situation .…"

"This is not a combat situation, Major, and your future in this programme depends on the outcome of the physical evaluation. Do your understand that?"

"Yes Ma'am. Colonel Jardine made it quite clear. I will be fine, Ma'am,"

Dobbs assured again, not wanting any fuss, sure that the top brass would think him weak if he refused to participate in the tests purely because he hadn't eaten or slept prior to their onset.

"Let's just get it over and done with, please, Ma'am."

"I can't. It wouldn't be fair," she admired his stoicism, but now was not the time or place for it.

He deserved the same chances as the other candidates, and that meant participating in the rigorous tests under the same carefully controlled conditions.

"I'll square it with the top brass …."

"You'll do no such thing, Major, that's _**my**_ job."

"Please don't make a fuss on my account, Ma'am. I'm happy to just get on with it," he insisted, trying not to let his irritation and impatience show.

He wasn't going to find the answers he was looking for stuck here in sickbay, and he wasn't about to let some meddlesome female stand in the way of his objective. Too many lives were at stake.

Sara Sykes watched the Major chewing, although he hadn't actually taken another bite of the banana, his jaw was working, the muscles bunching and clenching along the line of his nicely chiselled jaw and she could feel powerful waves of controlled anger radiating off him.

He was eager to get on with things.

He wanted to prove himself, and he was obviously trying not to let her see just how irritated he was, obviously wound up that her being too cautious could cost him this important posting.

She had to admire his control, if nothing else.

She was used to all the ways men handled themselves in situations when they felt they had little or no control. Some got mouthy, others tried to physically intimidate, others got quiet and tried to convince her with mean looks, and others used humour.

He was obviously the strong, silent type, who thought his magnetic personality and those beautiful baby blues drilling into her would do the trick.

He certainly had a powerful aura.

This, she decided, was a man who knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to do whatever it took to get it.

He was obviously going places, and impatient to get there, and he clearly saw her as an obstacle to achieving his goals.

Even sitting there stone faced and silent, he was communicating to her on so many levels exactly how he was feeling and what he was thinking.

This, she also decided, was a man she would do well not to tangle with.

Every nerve ending in her body was screaming at her that he was dangerous in every possible way.

Oh yes, in _**every **_possible way.

That thought sent a shiver down her spine, but it wasn't an unpleasant sensation.

He could prove to be a challenge.

_**In every possible way.**_

_**Just what she didn't need right now**_, she told herself sternly.

_**Stop thinking like a female and start thinking like a doctor again! **_

"Well …." Her voice trailed away as she took her bottom lip between her teeth briefly, and he could tell that she was wavering now.

"It's really not a problem Ma'am," he assured her, keeping his gaze steady and his tone soft now, obviously having come to the conclusion that he wasn't going to be able to bulldoze her with his animal magnetism and the force of his will.

_**A wise man knows that you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.**_

Sara Sykes found herself thinking, having to force herself not to smile.

Roger Dobbs sat on the edge of the bed and watched the cogs working behind the lady doctor's unusual violet eyes, obviously weighing up all the pros and cons.

As a civilian doctor, she obviously had other criteria and agendas to work to, but Dobbs was sure that any military doctor would have passed over any concerns they might have had about his fitness to participate, because as a soldier, on active duty, he would be expected to face any situation, regardless of his health, to push himself to the very limits of his endurance, simply because it might just save his life in the long run.

If he were wounded in the field, he wouldn't simply lie there and wait for someone to come and patch him up. Instinct would drive him to find the help he needed to stay alive, and sheer bloody mindedness would do the rest.

"The sooner we get started, the sooner I get some sack time. Whaddaya say, doc?" He coaxed in reasonable tones, obviously reaching the conclusion that he was going to have a better chance of getting her on side using reason and charm.

"Ok," Sara Sykes sighed in resignation, knowing that if she kicked up a stink with the top brass, it might jeopardise the man's chances of participating in the programme.

She didn't need to draw attention to herself and make waves with the top brass, and she didn't need to make an enemy of this man, especially if he might prove useful to her sometime in the future.

Still, he deserved the same chances that all the others had had.

His performance would undoubtedly suffer for the fact that he was lacking in sleep and nourishment, but even then, she would not be allowed to make allowances in her evaluation ….

The monitoring equipment did not lie, and it didn't take into consideration any excuses, reasonable or not.

However, if she protested to the Colonel, it would raise unnecessary questions in his mind as to whether the Major should even have been put forward for a place on the project, and place him at an unnecessary disadvantage, making him feel that he had to work twice as hard to convince the top brass that he had every right to be here, placing unnecessary stress and strain on the man, physically and psychologically.

The way the Major was looking at her now, told her clearly that he too was thinking the same thing, the muscles along his strong jaw line twitching again, and there was a fierce light of determination in his deep blue eyes now.

The last thing Sara Sykes wanted to do was spoil his chances even before he had gotten through the door.

If he was willing to give it a try, then she should not stand in his way.

He should be allowed to succeed or fail by his own merits, not have some high handed, over zealous medic laying down the law.

Even if she wanted to do so, out of genuine concern for his welfare.

That way he would be able to accept the results.

That way, _**he **_could take responsibility for his success or failure, and not go through the rest of his life wondering if he might have succeeded, if the lady doctor hadn't put her foot down and put unwanted questions and doubts about his fitness, stamina and mental strength into the minds of his superiors.

She tried to put herself in his place, and knew that she would want the same chance.

She would want to prove herself.

On her terms.

She would want to rise to the challenge, because she would not be able to live with herself if she did not try, did not make the point that she would and could do whatever was required to succeed.

And as a woman living in a male dominated world, she had had to fight for any and every opportunity just to prove that she was just as worthy as they were.

Ultimately, it was his future.

And his decision.

Secretly, she admired his determination, if she found it a little misplaced.

"Ok," she acquiesced with another soft sigh and was rewarded by the most endearing of half smiles tugging at the right corner of his lips. "But drink a glass of milk for me first."

If he was going to do all that strenuous exercise, he wouldn't want to do it on a full stomach, she decided.

"That and the banana should lift your blood glucose levels …. Enough for you to cope with the tests, at least," she told him now.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course. You could not eat, attempt to do the tests, collapse and flunk out, with the added embarrassment of having to spend the night in the infirmary, or you could have a three course lunch and forgo the tests altogether, but both would have the same conclusion, Major, both would end with the Colonel sending another escort to see you off the base and onto a plane back to wherever the hell it was you came from …. And, a permanent note of the spectacular failure on your service record for time immemorial," she added for good measure.

"You don't believe in sugar coating the pill, do you doc," he threw her an apologetic half smile for the play on words, and again Sara Sykes found herself thinking what an odd mixture he was.

"Ok, ok," he acquiesced, knowing that to argue with her would only mean that he would just be expending more energy in futile resistance. "Banana milkshakes …." His face contorted into a grimace of disgust. "Gee, Doc, you sure know how to show a guy a good time."

"I won't be a minute, here," she reached out and opened up a nearby cupboard, standing on tip toe to stretch up and reach down what she needed from the top shelf, then turned back to face him, a small, sterile pot in her hand. "In the meantime, go make some room …."

"What? From here?"

_**Ok, it's not like I haven't heard it before, a hundred times a day, but the old ones are still the best ones ….**_

Sara found herself thinking with a silent groan.

For the first time, she saw the tiniest crack in his austere façade, a softening of the rigid, military bearing.

Was that amusement she could see twinkling in those incredibly blue eyes?

So, he wasn't quite all 'squared away', as the Marines called it ….

There was a sense of humour buried in there, somewhere ….

The effect was devastating.

_**Lord but that is one seriously sexy guy.**_

She chuckled at the look of indignation that settled on his face now.

"No, there's a bathroom back there …."

She tossed the small pot to him and pointed him in the right direction and while he went to provide the urine sample, Sara Sykes went to the small staff refreshment room just down the hallway and filched a small carton of full fat milk, then made her way quickly back to the exam room, still debating with herself as to whether she should pick up the telephone and call up Colonel Jardine, to register her disapproval that the new recruit hadn't been given time to eat and rest before reporting for his physical evaluation.

"Please don't, Ma'am," Dobbs spoke in low, soft tones as he returned to the examination room and held out the sample pot to her now.

"Mmmm?" She looked up absently.

"Please don't call the Colonel," he smiled ruefully then, and she could not suppress a smile of her own.

"Mind reader, huh? Going to have to be careful around you, Major," she carefully took the pot of urine from him and handed him the carton of milk in exchange. "Sit."

"Ma'am, yes Ma'am."

Dobbs took the carton of milk and wrestled to get it open with his teeth, as he hopped back up onto the bed, and watched as Sara Sykes pulled on rubber gloves and used a syringe to draw out a small amount of urine from the sterile pot and transferred it into a small test tube, then resealed the sterile pot, labelled it and set it to one side to be taken to the microbiology lab later.

She then opened up another cupboard, extracting another small carton of urine testing sticks and dripped one into the sample in the test tube for a moment, then retrieved it and noted down the result on her clipboard before pulling off the sterile gloves and depositing them in the trash.

When she turned back to face her patient, he had finished drinking the milk, and was wiping away the telltale remnants of a white moustache from his top lip with the back of his hand, as he watched her with undisguised curiosity.

"No glucose or ketones in your urine, so that's a good sign," she told him with a gentle smile of reassurance now. "Probably means that you aren't diabetic, but I will have to take some more blood, for further analysis. They'll want to test it for other things besides glucose, Major, so relax. It's purely routine."

Dobbs had endured enough physical examinations over the years to know that she was being straight with him.

"Ketones?"

"Yes," she was surprised by his sudden curiosity then wondered if it was simply a case of 'know thy enemy', just in case it turned out that he did have diabetes. She suddenly admired him for wanting to know more. It told her a lot about him, and his character.

"We find ketones in the urine when the body has been forced to break down its fat reserve, to use for energy, because it can't utilise the glucose in the blood, which is broken down from the food we ingest …."

"Thanks, I think."

"Relax. It's good news, Major. If there had been glucose, and ketones, then it would have been a good indicator that you are diabetic. That your body either isn't making enough insulin, or is resistant to the insulin it does make, meaning that you can't break down glucose in your blood and you get tired easily, lose weight, get thirsty and need to go to the bathroom more often …. But, as neither glucose nor ketones are present, it makes me more inclined to believe that what we have here is a simple case of low blood sugar, because you missed a meal. All it really means is that you will just have to be careful that you eat regularly, especially if you are slated to fly."

"Yes Ma'am,"

Was that a hint of relief she could hear in his voice now?

She could understand, especially as he had already told her that he was careful to avoid anything that might mean his having to quit flying.

"Now for the fun part. Go behind the screen please, and strip down to your underwear, then come back and lie down on the bed."

"Ma'am."

The look on his face was precious, and Sara Sykes could not suppress a soft smile.

Despite all her years of training, all her years on the job, she was having a hard time being cold and clinical and distant with this man.

There was just something about him that made it hard not to be human.

Hard not to like him.

Despite his hard man façade …. And the 'keep out' glowers ….

_**Take it easy girl!**_

_**He's out of bounds.**_

_**Even if he does look good enough to eat in that damned uniform ….**_

"No need to be embarrassed, Major. Never had a physical done by a female medic before?"

Who was she trying to reassure?

For the first time since she had qualified, Sara Sykes was finding the idea of seeing a male patient without his clothes on a most uncomfortable prospect.

"No, Ma'am."

"Well, there's a first time for everything," she told him sagely, pulling her errant thoughts together, as he hopped down off the bed, already pulling his shirt out of the waistband of his pants as he went. "We've seen it all before …."

"_**We,**_ Ma'am?" He stopped dead in his tracks and turned back to face her with a scowl.

"Yes Major. Regulations require a nurse to be in attendance while I examine you. Lieutenant Kelly will be back in a few minutes."

"Terrific …." He muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Like I said, we've seen it all before."

"Not mine, you haven't," Dobbs mumbled under his breath as he turned and disappeared behind the screen and began to undress.

He was no prude, and without being conceited, he knew that he had a body that many women found attractive ….

And he had done this countless times before ….

So why the hell did he suddenly feel so damned uncomfortable with the idea of stripping off and baring his all to _**this**_ woman?

"Don't suppose there's any chance of you showing me yours, if I show mine?" He mumbled in irritation under his breath, pulling at the knot on his tie with awkward fingers.

And then felt heat creeping slowly into his cheeks as he found himself imagining what Sara Sykes would look like in the soft golden glow of fire light, her hair, loose, falling provocatively around her shoulders and naked breasts ….

_**What the hell was he thinking?**_

Hell, Hawke …. Anyone would think you hadn't been up close and personal with a woman before!

_**Dammit **__Dobbs __**…. keep your mind on the job!**_

"What's taking so long?" He recognised this voice as belonging to the Lieutenant now, and his heart sank.

"Nothing Ma'am."

Roger Dobbs finally stepped out from behind the screen, wearing only a pair of clean white boxer shorts and Army issue socks. Lieutenant Kelly ran her eyes greedily up and down his tan, lean but muscular body and then gave the knitwear a disapproving look that told him he would have to lose those too, so he hopped around, briefly, pulling the offending garments off, then after dumping them on top of the pile of clothes he had laid on a chair behind the screen, he padded back toward the bed and hopped up once more as he looked from one to the other of the women and wished him self any other place than right here, right now.

"Ready?" Sara Sykes asked in gentle, but serious tones now, indicating that it was time to get down to business.

"Sure, I hope you're hands are warm …."

"Lay back and think of Uncle Sam," she grinned wickedly, unable to stop herself from admiring his glorious golden tan, and his wonderfully athletic, muscular physique.

_**Lord but he was a magnificent specimen of American manhood.**_

Clearing her throat, and ignoring the blatantly curious glances from her colleague, Nora Kelly, Sara Sykes began her examination in earnest, her touch light and gentle as her fingers travelled over his body, never lingering overly long in one place, as she checked him over, fingers seeking out and finding his strong, steady pulse again one minute, then gently probing the glands in his neck the next, trying to ignore the slight stretching of cotton fabric around his groin ….

And Nora Kelly's amused, speculative glances.

_**So he was a man, not a military machine after all ….**_

_**Congratulations Major, you're a human being!**_

And, after all, medically speaking, it was a healthy reaction in a young, healthy, red blooded male of the species.

Roger Dobbs silently endured her exquisite touch, trying to ignore the tightening sensation in his groin, as her hands gently palpated his chest and then carefully pressed all across his flat belly, then gently explored the scar on his shoulder, courtesy of Vietnam, and the more recent gunshot wound to his lower left abdomen, courtesy of a recent Airwolf mission into Africa.

_**Easy soldier …. **_

"I guess you forgot to mention this. It looks fairly recent," she commented, leaning in to take a closer look at the still pink scar tissue, then eased him over toward her slightly so that she could take a look at the exit wound in his back.

_**And his nice back porch ….**_

At least this was something that Dobbs was prepared for.

Marella had remembered the incident and the subsequent injury and had added a paragraph in the Major's biography to account for it.

"My reward for stopping some punk kid from robbing a convenience store, back in the Spring," he let out a soft sigh as he rolled over on to his back and looked up into her gentle face. "He got mad because I got between him and the cigarette counter."

"Ah, the demon tobacco …. Ok, you can sit up now, I need to listen to your chest."

Dobbs lithely raised himself up into a sitting position while Sara Sykes picked up her stethoscope and smiling, pressed the cold metal end against his warm chest.

His heart was beating strongly, a steady, if somewhat rapid rhythm, pounding in her ears.

Either he was more nervous than he was showing ….

Or something had gotten him excited.

Sara Sykes decided that it was not very professional of her to even contemplate what might be on the Major's mind at that moment.

Indeed, now that she stopped and thought about it, she realised that it was a good thing that he couldn't really read her mind, because most of what she had thought about him in the last few minutes should definitely have been censored.

For it had been completely unprofessional, not to mention unethical and probably against the Hippocratic oath!

If it was even legal!

_**Down girl!**_

This was most definitely _**not **_what she was here for.

It just wasn't like her at all.

Ogling the 'talent' was more in Nora Kelly's line than her own.

Most definitely out of character.

But he was cute.

_**Real cute ….**_

And some instinct told her that he was way too much man for her to handle.

_**Too rich for your blood, girl!**_

_**Now concentrate on what you're here for.**_

_**This kind of distraction you can do without.**_

"That's fine. Heart sounds good and healthy and your lungs are clear," she told him after she had him breathe in and out again several time, trying to buy herself time to get her wayward thoughts and her own racing pulse under control, deciding to forgo the rest of the physical examination, for she had no doubt that the rest of him was in perfect working order and there was no need to embarrass either of them further, and give Nora Kelly something to gossip about in the mess hall.

Sykes busied herself with drawing the blood she needed from a vein in his arm and filling several vials, handing them to Lieutenant Kelly to be labelled and dated and then she concluded the exam by testing his reflexes.

"Ok, time for a bit of a workout," she told him as she scribbled more notes down on her clipboard. "If you go through to the locker room, you'll find some gym clothes. Shorts and a T-Shirt, but first, better check your blood glucose levels once more."

She quickly repeated the finger prick test and was a little happier with the results. His blood glucose levels were on the rise, as she had hoped.

"Better?"

"Better. Now scoot. Back here in five. Ok?"

"Ma'am, yes Ma'am."

Dobbs jumped down off the bed and ducked behind the screen to scoop up his discarded clothes, deciding that it was way past time for being modest, and walked briskly back toward the bathroom he had used a short time ago, and the adjacent locker room that he had discovered at the same time.

As she watched him go, Sara Sykes could not help wondering if her mouth was really gaping open and her tongue was hanging out ….

_**Lordy but he was gorgeous …. **_

And he looked just as good _**out **_of that damned Army uniform as he did in it.

_**Pull yourself together girl! **_

_**Drooling over a guy, at your age!**_

Oh boy ….

She had always been a sucker for a tanned guy in anything white …. Something about the contrast ….

_**Steady girl!**_

Good thing he wouldn't be darkening her doorstep very often, at least in that particular state of undress, because she had a horrible feeling that all sense and reason would soon go flying out of the door, if he found it in him to relax that ramrod spine of his, and offer her a real, genuine smile ….

"Doctor," Nora Kelly's soft voice suddenly penetrated Sara Sykes' thoughts and she blinked rapidly before turning her attention to the older woman. "I said I'll just run these samples down to the microbiology lab."

"Yes. Thank you."

"You ok?" The older woman asked, a knowing look in her pale grey eyes now.

"Of course."

"Me thinks if I took your blood pressure right now, it would tell me something different. You two know each other?" Kelly quizzed, watching the younger woman's face closely.

"No."

However, Nora Kelly did not look convinced, but, whatever it was that was running through her head, she wisely kept her mouth shut, as she collected the samples from the counter and left the room on soft, silent feet.


	8. Chapter 8

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Seven**

Roger Dobbs thought that if he had to carry on for much longer, his lungs would explode, as he continued to pedal the static bicycle. He was hooked up to a bank of monitors, all flickering and beeping or scratching out graphs or squiggles on lined computer paper, an oxygen breathing tube fixed between his teeth and secured on either side of his mouth with tape, a pair of clips fixed across the bridge of his nose, closing his nostrils so that he was forced to inhale and exhale through his mouth.

Dr Sara Sykes was standing close beside him, splitting her attention between watching him as he labored away on the bike, and the monitors, scanning the readings they displayed and making notes on the familiar clipboard.

The monitors were there to record his temperature, heart rate, blood pressure, lung capacity, blood oxygen saturation and his brainwave activity, and the levels of carbon dioxide he exhaled, indicating the efficiency of his pulmonary system. Intermittently she would lean in a little closer to make note of a particular reading on a different monitor and scribble it down on her report.

There was no clock in the room, so Dobbs had no idea how long he had been pedalling, but it felt like he had travelled the equivalent of the Tour De France, at least twice, and he knew that he had to keep going, pumping his legs up and down, pushing the pedals around and around, until Sykes said he could stop, and that would only happen when the stopwatch in her other hand beeped.

This, she had told him before he began, would be the last activity he would be required to take part in today.

He had already pounded out the equivalent of a marathon on the treadmill, climbed what felt like every damned tree in the Amazon basin, up and down the ropes non stop, then rowed up and down the Nile in the rowing machine ….

And as he fought now to drag in one more breath to fill his aching, starving lungs, and to drive his leaden, burning legs to push down on the pedal, around and around, Roger Dobbs understood what all the fuss had been about.

Jardine's lecture, about measuring up.

Sykes concerns about his low blood sugar readings and lack of sleep.

He had never worked so damned hard in all his life.

And if there was one thing Roger Dobbs was not, it was lazy.

And if this was how it was going to be on Project Thunderbird, day in day out ….

Then there was every likelihood that he would be carried out of here in a pine box.

Or in a straightjacket, a quivering, jabbering wreck …. His new home, a nice little padded cell!

"Ok, Major," Dobbs suddenly felt a warm, gentle hand resting against the burning, bulging, bicep muscle at the top of his left arm and realised that Dr Sykes was addressing him, concern etched into her face.

"I said you can stop now," she smiled at him benignly now, seeming to realise that he had psyched himself out for a moment, so that he could endure what was left of the test and go through the pain barrier.

Dobbs let out a deep groan of relief and began to slow down his pedalling until his legs came to a gentle halt and he slumped forward slightly to lean over the narrow handlebars, panting raggedly.

"That's fine," Dr Sykes continued to smile softly at him, reaching out to gently remove the clips from the bridge of his nose, allowing him to breathe out through his nose again at last.

"I just need you to stay where you are for a few more minutes. I still have a few checks to do," she explained, reaching out for her clipboard once more, and scanning the banks of monitors. "I have to record you heart rate and blood pressure while you are getting your breath back and then we will have a complete picture of your physical fitness, from resting to onset of exercise and then in recovery …. And I'm sorry, but I will need to take a little more blood, need to check it for certain hormone levels, and blood oxygen saturation …. As well as glucose levels after strenuous exercise."

Dobbs nodded vigorously in understanding, unable to speak because of the oxygen tube in his mouth, and feeling his heart rate steadying and his lungs recovering now.

"Well," she glanced down at her clipboard once more, then back up at his expectant face, her pretty violet eyes twinkling with amusement. "You passed with flying colours," she grinned, most charmingly. "Welcome aboard, Major."

Dobbs let out a deep sigh of relief and nodded once again.

"Of course, there are other tests that you will need complete," she warned now. "Psychiatric evaluations play a big part in our admission criteria too," she elaborated when she saw his brows drawing together in a frown. "But, that's for later today. So, you can relax, for a little while. The physical evaluation is over, and you have more than met the required criteria for entry into the project. Congratulations, Major."

Her praise seemed sincere and her congratulations genuine, so Roger Dobbs allowed himself a half smile, around the breathing tube still taped to his mouth, but, even as he did so, he suspected that to her it would look more like a grimace.

"Now, when you've gotten your breath back, we'll go through a few stretches, so that you can 'warm down' …. Less risk of injury that way," she was telling him all of this whilst preparing a new hypodermic syringe to draw the fresh blood sample she had mentioned. "And then, you can hit the showers and be out of here, before I devise a few more tortures for you," she chuckled, reaching out now to gently peel away the tape from the corner of his mouth so that he could spit out the tube.

"Thank you Ma'am." he finally managed, in a gravel voice and she handed him a small cup of water. He nodded his thanks as he put the cup to his lips and drank thirstily and when he handed her the empty cup, she passed him a soft, fluffy, freshly laundered towel, which he used to mop his brow and wrap around his perspiration soaked neck and shoulders.

When she had done drawing blood and had finished labelling the sample, Sara Sykes indicated that he return to one of the crash mats and together they went through a stretching routine, so that his muscles could relax and cool down slowly, and out of the corner of his eye, Roger Dobbs could not stop himself from admiring the graceful, supple movements of the doctor's slender body, as she showed him how to stretch and bend.

"Yoga," she grinned, in response to his questioning look. "Good for the mind and the body."

"I'll take your word for it, Ma'am."

"Ok, that's it Major …. I think we're all done."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"Make sure you have something to eat, and then get your head down. When the others report for their evening schedule, you will be required to report to my colleague, Dr Edward Van Dam, for your psychiatric evaluation."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"See you around, Major."

"Ma'am?" he arched an eyebrow in curiosity now.

"You'll be going through something similar to this most days, from now on, Major," she smirked at the look of disgust on his face now. "No pain, no gain …. Or so they say."

"Ma'am, yes, Ma'am!"

"We have to make sure that you stay this fit, Major. It would be criminal, no, a crying shame, to allow that wonderful physique of yours to waste away, sitting in a classroom all day long," she winked at him then, and Roger Dobbs found himself doing a double take.

"I could get used to it Ma'am. At a push," he mumbled.

"I'm sure you could, Major, but it ain't gonna happen."

"Ma'am."

"They don't call me Psycho Sara for nothing, you know. Now, go on, get out of here, and remember, you need to keep your blood glucose levels up when you're slated to fly, or else you and I will end up seeing a lot more of each other than you bargained for."


	9. Chapter 9

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Eight**

Alone in the lab at last, Sara Sykes took advantage of the lull in activity and the unusual silence, sipping a large fat mug of rich, strong black coffee and nibbling on a cookie she had swiped from the staff room, because she had given her lunch, a banana, to the new man, Dobbs.

A frown began to pucker at her brow as she again thought about the new man.

There was no doubt about it, he was gorgeous, but ….

Mmmm, yes, there was quite a large _**but**_ hanging over him, in her opinion.

There was something ….

_**Something ….**_

But, she couldn't quite put her finger on specifically what.

For one thing, the strange affect he seemed to have on her was unsettling and most unexpected.

She had always put her career before any personal relationships and she wasn't the sort of girl to make her mind up about a guy on first meeting.

She wasn't the sort of girl who made an instant liking or disliking to anyone. She preferred to spend time with them and learn about them before making up her mind whether she liked them or not.

She had always been someone who listened to her head not her hormones. She trusted her instincts, her gut reactions, but did not solely rely on them, because they weren't infallible.

So, her reaction to the new man was rather perplexing.

She didn't think it had anything to do with the fact that he was good looking and had a very nice body to boot.

Sara had always found a man's sense of humour and his mind more attractive than his physique, although it didn't hurt if the good Lord had seen fit to put him together in such a way as it made her mouth water ….

_**Stop that, right now. This could be serious!**_ She told herself sternly.

There was an aura about him.

_**Danger.**_

Oh yes, and the power that he had exuded, the raw power of his personality and his sexuality had come off him in waves, assaulting all her senses.

Her gut had told her instantly that he was a force to be reckoned with. That she had better be on her guard, in more ways than one.

And there was his manner and attitude.

He was a contradiction all round, she decided, his mouth and body saying one thing, but his eyes saying something different.

Those lovely, deep sky blue eyes, so penetrating and all seeing, vigilant, watchful, distrusting.

Hooded and secretive too.

And there had been something guarded about him too.

A little too rigid and self controlled, not giving much away.

_**What secrets was he keeping?**_ She couldn't help pondering.

Naturally, as a newcomer, he would have schooled himself to be prepared for anything and to be aware of everyone and everything around him, wanting to assess the lay of the land before he let down his guard.

They all did it, squared back their shoulders, put on their best bib and tucker, and minded their _p's _and _q's_ until they knew who they could talk to and who they could trust and then maybe they could let their hair down a little.

She had a feeling that it was more than just that with him.

He was keeping himself tightly reined in, measuring his every thought, word and action.

_**But why?**_

Something about him had set off all her alarm bells, and setting aside the strong feelings of attraction and her reaction to his raw sexuality, she was still left with a sense of unease and apprehension.

She would have to keep her eye on him.

At least until she figured out who and what he really was, for she suddenly had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her that she was going to have to deal with him, one way or another, before she was through here.

He was a man with a purpose and she didn't think it was all to do with learning to handle a new jet plane.

Oh yes, she would have to keep her eye on Major Roger Dobbs, but she would have to be careful not to show her hand and give herself away, because she had a purpose too, and she was determined that nothing and no-one was going to stand in her way.


	10. Chapter 10

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Nine.**

"Congratulations, Major," Frank Campbell caught up with Roger Dobbs in the mess hall. He pulled out the chair beside Dobbs, turned it around and slung his leg over it casually. He sat down with a hearty sigh, grimacing, as he caught a whiff of Dobbs lunch. "I guess I should officially welcome you to our very exclusive little club."

Campbell swallowed down hard, and Dobbs, realising that he was probably feeling queasy after his stint in the 20g centrifuge, that he had been scheduled to take a ride in earlier that morning, regarded him casually.

He was instantly surprised to see the younger man looking pale, eyes darting around him nervously.

There was also a slight but unmistakable tremor in his hands, as he clasped them before him over the chair back.

However, as Dobbs him self had done more than his fair share of riding the centrifuge over the years, and was deeply aware of the feelings of nausea and vertigo and drunkenness it left the rider with, he felt little or no sympathy for the younger man, and continued to shovel forkfuls of scrambled egg and wholemeal toast into his mouth.

After his 'initiation' in the gym, into the very exclusive club that Campbell had just referred to, Roger Dobbs had showered and donned a cool, comfortable, light weight dark beige, all in one boiler suit, and had taken a brief tour around the lower levels of Project Thunderbird, wanting to familiarise himself with his new surroundings, and get his bearings, before heading to his quarters, where he found his kit bag, laid flat on the floor at the foot of his bed.

He had used the linen and blankets supplied to make up his bunk, and stowed his gear in the closet and drawers.

The room was small, containing two single beds, one on each side of the room, along with matching closet and night stand with small mirror, and three drawers.

A small fluorescent tube light was positioned on the wall above each bed head, and there was a metal framed chair for each of them, positioned against the wall, between bed and closet, and over which, his bunk mate, Frank Campbell had laid out his clean dress uniform, for later.

The room was clean and functional, and Roger Dobbs had had worse billets during his time in the Army.

He had taken pride in putting his gear away neatly and making sure that he could bounce a dime off the newly made bed, the linen tucked in tightly, as he had been taught in boot camp all those years ago.

Naturally, after so little sleep and all that physical activity, Dobbs was feeling pretty weary and sore, but he was also curious to learn as much as he could about his new home.

By the time he had finished exploring the accommodation level and then finished stowing his gear, he had begun to feel famished. A glance at his watch told him that it was almost noon, and previous experience of military life told him that the mess hall would soon be open for lunch.

With the lady doctor's reminder about keeping up his blood glucose levels still ringing in his ears, Dobbs had set about finding the mess hall, not a difficult task, as he followed a gentle trickle of personnel, and the aroma of strong coffee and freshly baked bread.

At the counter, he had helped himself to a healthy portion of scrambled eggs and wholemeal toast, and two cups of aromatic black coffee and had found a nice, quiet spot in the far corner, from which to watch the world go by, as he ate.

That was where Frank Campbell had found him, when he was just about half way through his meal.

"I guess you survived Psycho Sara," Campbell drawled, and then swallowed hard again, grimacing as Dobbs continued to tuck into his meal, chewing industriously. "Welcome aboard."

Campbell now eyed the second cup of untouched, cooling coffee, on the table beside Dobb's own, dubiously, obviously trying to decide if he should risk putting something into his stomach so soon after his testing in the centrifuge.

"Sir," he added as an after thought, suddenly remembering that he was speaking to a senior officer. "That lady might only have been here for a few days, but she sure has made a lasting impression!"

From his tone of voice, Roger Dobbs got the impression that it wasn't exactly the same kind of impression that the good doctor had made on himself, whilst storing the piece of information, that she too was a newcomer to the project, away for future reference.

One less suspect, he decided, with more than a little relief, then wondered why he was so pleased with the idea.

"Are you going to drink that coffee, or glower at it?" Dobbs sighed, pushing his now empty plate away and reaching out for his own coffee cup.

"Well, yes, thank you, if it's going begging?"

"Help your self," Dobbs sighed, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin before gulping down his own now cooling coffee. "Thanks for the warning, by the way," the sarcasm in his tone unmistakeable.

"They do say, Sir, that 'that which does not kill us, makes us strong' and from the way you put that grub away, I figure you ain't dead yet!" Campbell smirked, to hide the quiver in his voice, reaching out to sip, tentatively, at the cooling coffee, wrinkling his nose and swallowing hard as the stringent brew hit his stomach. "Man, that stuff is lethal!" He groaned.

"From all the whining that you're doing, there, Frank, I guess your little jive in the centrifuge was fun," Dobbs smirked, and was taken aback by the sudden darkening of the young man's open, handsome, Nordic features.

_**What the hell was that all about?**_

Frank Campbell must have realised that there was something in his expression that was bothering his colleague, for he quickly pulled himself together.

"Your time will come, Major. Just you wait and see," he kept his tone even and his expression neutral now.

"Captain, you make it sound like the best I can hope for from this posting, is to be carried out feet first, in a wooden box!" Dobbs quipped, sipping at his coffee and noting the slight wince on his colleague's face as this remark found its mark.

"Well, they do seem hell bent on it, Major, "Campbell sighed, softly, and pushed his coffee cup away, in disgust, and just for an instant, Roger Dobbs thought he seemed to grow paler.

"And they are pretty creative about it too," he regarded Dobbs with a degree of suspicion, probably trying to decide what, if anything, the Major knew of the happenings, here, at Thunderbird, and debating as to whether he should give his Army colleague a 'sitrep', situation report.

"Tell me about it," Dobbs lamented, not wanting to make it sound like an invitation, or an order. He would much rather Campbell made that decision without any help from him.

Roger Dobbs watched the younger man's face carefully.

It was obvious that there was something on his mind, and Dobbs could clearly see the debate going on behind those watery green eyes.

Roger Dobbs knew the instant the younger man made his decision, almost able to see the shutters coming down, as the young Viking drew in a deep, shoulder raising breath and then expelled it slowly.

"One session with Psycho Sara is nothing, Major."

The opportunity to confide in his bunk mate about the goings on here at Thunderbird passed, and Frank Campbell kept his thoughts and his concerns to himself.

So be it, Dobbs thought to himself wearily. He would just have to be like the other guys, and find out for himself, as time went by.

Campbell's reluctance to open up could mean one of two things, either he was responsible for the so called accidents plaguing the project, and didn't want to reveal himself as a suspect, or, he was anxious not to voice his concerns, just in case he was the only one who had attributed so much importance to them, and the others considered the incidents to be nothing more than inconveniences, coincidences or accidents.

Then, Roger Dobbs realised that there was one other possible reason.

Campbell didn't yet know if he could trust him.

Naturally, as the new comer into an already established group, Roger Dobbs had anticipated that there might be a degree of hostility, even suspicion and was prepared for it.

He knew the way guys like these thought.

He had been through a similar process back there at Heatham the first time, a new face, a threat, on many levels, to the men already working on a project.

He could be a plant by the top brass to spy on the others and pass on information, or, he could be an accomplice to whomever it was who was causing the chaos at Thunderbird.

Or, he could simply be what he seemed, a new recruit to the project, completely ignorant of the goings on, and totally innocent of any wrongdoing.

"Seems to me, Frank, may I call you Frank?" The younger man nodded. "Seems to me that _**that's **_the _**only**_ thing the Army has done consistently, since the day I joined," Dobbs sighed softly, regarding the younger man with a critical eye. "Try to kill me, I mean," he clarified. "In whatever creative way they can, but, the physical I just had doesn't quite compare to a day in Vietnam," Dobbs sighed again. "Although, it comes a pretty close second!" He half smiled now.

"Vietnam? You were there?" Frank Campbell could not hide his surprise, and Roger Dobbs found him self trying to smother a smile with his napkin, then thought better of it, needing to break the ice with the younger man.

"If you're thinking that I don't look old enough, I thank you for the compliment," he lowered the napkin and allowed the younger man to see his genuine smile now. "I was nineteen when I joined up, and got shipped out after eight weeks in boot camp. If I thought that my drill instructor was a sadist, and that boot camp was hell, then I soon learned that what I'd seen before I got to 'Nam, was like kindergarten in comparison."

"You flew Huey's?"

"Sure did," Dobbs confirmed, emptying his coffee cup and sitting back slightly from the table to regard his companion. "So, when do I get to meet the other guys?" He asked in as casual a tone of voice as he could muster.

"Any minute now …."

Campbell's voice trailed away as there was a burst of noise and laughter from the corridor just outside the mess hall door, and suddenly in marched a group of men, clad much like Dobbs, in the dark all in one coveralls and heavy work boots.

"Speak of the devil," Campbell rolled his eyes heavenward, and let out a soft groan, as the boisterous group of men made their way up to the counter, one of them breaking away from the others to saunter over to where Campbell and Dobbs were seated.

Roger Dobbs had been hoping for a few minutes with his bunk mate, to get a beat on the rest of the men on the project, before he met them, but it seemed that that opportunity had also passed them by.

Dobbs knew from personal experience that sharing close quarters with other men of similar age and ambition was not an easy thing, especially when, like himself, the man in question preferred solitude and his own company.

Stringfellow Hawke had been young, and more adaptable, and had shared most of his young life with his brother, St John, but even he had found it hard to get used to all the noise and the constant activity, the struggle to fit in with Army life and with a bunch of strangers, the constant negotiation and compromising that went on just to get a little peace and quiet and time to think, and the endless snipes and jibes and bickering that went along with a group of healthy young men trying to get the better of each other and handle the daily testosterone overdose that came with jostling for position in the group.

The trainees at Project Thunderbird were not youngsters, and could therefore, be relied upon to handle their hormones and their emotions much better than the teenagers that Stringfellow Hawke had found himself thrown in with, but, they were all different personality types, from different services and equally different backgrounds and they had been thrust together in these claustrophobic, subterranean confines, and Roger Dobbs wondered whether they were beginning to feel the effects of living so closely, if so called cabin fever was setting in.

He would not be surprised, especially if you added the uncertainty of each trainee's continued participation in the project, the anxiety of letting themselves and their branch of the service down, if they failed, and the possible threat of a saboteur or murderer being on the loose amongst them.

"Captain Campbell," The newcomer greeted Frank Campbell courteously, and nodded politely in acknowledgement of Roger Dobbs, before adding to Campbell. "Do you have a moment?"

"Certainly, Commander, but first, may I introduce Major Roger Dobbs, US Army. He's just arrived," Frank Campbell politely made his introductions and Roger Dobbs rose from his seat, offering the other man a crisp salute, and then offered his hand in greeting.

"Major, this is Lieutenant Commander Eugene Webber, US Navy," Campbell explained, a slight frown marring his brow, briefly, when the naval officer did not readily accepted the Army man's extended hand, however he did return the salute, briefly.

"Major," Webber's tone was polite, but cold. "My apologies for the intrusion, but I need to speak with Captain Campbell."

"Be my guest, Commander Webber."

"I will catch up with you later, Major. No doubt you will be joining us for classes, at some point."

"No doubt, Commander."

"Excuse me, Major," Frank Campbell threw Dobbs an apologetic look as he slipped out of his seat, and followed Eugene Webber to a table on the other side of the mess hall, where they carried on a brief, and animated conversation well out of even Roger Dobbs' sharp hearing.

Frowning slightly, Dobbs wondered what was going on, but then found him self being surrounded by the other noisy and boisterous trainees on Project Thunderbird, as they fetched up at his table, pulling out chairs and depositing trays of food and coffee cups, noisily, on the table around him.

"Don't mind us …."

"Man, I could eat the ass out of an elephant!"

"Don't think Frankie feels like eatin' much!"

"By the way, what do you call that lovely shade of green?"

"C'mon, ladies!" This from the first guy, now. "Calm down, and mind your manners, now. Gate crashed the guy's lunch, least we could do is introduce ourselves. I'm Major Guy Anders, USAF, and these two jokers are Major Malcolm Shaw, USAF and Lieutenant Commander Chuck McCrea, US Navy."

"Roger Dobbs, Major, US Army."

Dobbs acknowledged each man, then sat back in his seat and watched as they ploughed into their huge plates of food and cracked jokes, occasionally casting curious glances in the direction of Webber and Campbell, who were still engrossed in quiet conversation, before making some wise crack remark about the food or their instructors.

"You must be Bannerman's replacement."

"Bannerman?" Dobbs raised an eyebrow in query.

"Yeah, guy got a ruptured appendix."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, not pretty man!"

"Talkative, ain't ya?"

"Leave the guy alone, and eat your chow, Chuck," Anders grumbled. "No wonder they thought Bannerman only had indigestion, it's a pretty common complaint around here, seeing as we have to put up with you two acting like Laurel and Hardy at every damned meal!"

"Ooooh!" Laurel and Hardy jeered and then fell about laughing once more, leaving Roger Dobbs to ponder on just how long his nerves would be able to stand their antics, before he felt like punching their lights out.

Every unit had them.

Jokers.

Wise guys, excitable types, who thought that it was their mission in life, to play pranks, and goof around, no matter how dangerous, or serious, the true nature of their profession.

In almost every case, they always thought that they were funnier than they really were, and pretty soon their antics wore thin with the rest of the guys.

Shaw and McCrea seemed to have an established repartee, but if the look on Guy Anders' face was anything to go by, they were quickly reaching the stage where they were becoming irritating rather than amusing.

"You may not believe this, Major, but they can be serious, sometimes," Anders tone of voice was cool, his expression tight and unforgiving as he glared at his two colleagues, especially his fellow Air Force colleague, Shaw.

"Sure we can, but let's face it, Anders, this place would be like a morgue if we didn't have a little fun and inject a little humour into things."

"I'll inject my boot up your ass, if you don't quit with the joking around, and finish your chow."

Anders' gaze briefly drifted over to where Webber and Campbell were finishing up their chat, Webber rising to his feet now, before turning to walk toward the food counter to help himself to his lunch.

"Who died and made you Webber's understudy?" McCrea hissed.

"What's the hurry? We get a siesta before the next class."

"We might, but me thinks our new recruit here, gets to go get his head examined by Dr Van Doom. Now, you tell me, why the hell does it matter, today, if I wet the bed when I was four years old, for cryin' out loud!"

Dobbs watched the proceedings with mild interest, wondering if this was one of Anders' attempts at humour now, and curious to know why he was now encouraging them, whilst also recalling that he did indeed have an appointment for a psychiatric evaluation after lunch.

He took the time to familiarise himself with each man, committing their faces to memory and calling up the information he had read in the files provided for him by Archangel.

Guy Anders, aged about twenty seven, measuring about six feet tall, broad shoulders, deep chest and big, strong hands and wrists, he had deep red hair and watery blue eyes in an angular, clean shaven face.

Malcolm Shaw, also measuring roughly six feet tall, narrower in the shoulder and chest area, and sporting a thin mousy brown moustache, to match the thinning hair on his head. He had warm, friendly brown eyes and a ready smile, and Dobbs estimated his age to be nearer twenty five.

Charles, 'Chuck' McCrea was also around twenty five or six years old, shorter than the others, at about five feet eleven inches tall, thin and wiry and with surprisingly big feet, a tawny blond with piercing blue eyes, he too was clean shaven and appeared to have suffered quite badly from acne at one time, if the pockmark scars on his chin and forehead were any indication.

"Because," Shaw affected a very bad German accent now. "It indicates some deep rooted inadequacy."

"I'd be inclined to be more worried, if you _**still**_ wet the bed!" Chuck McCrea quipped now and Shaw let out a groan of protest at being beaten to the punch line.

It was at this point that Frank Campbell rejoined them, sitting down with a heavy sigh in the seat he had vacated, beside Roger Dobbs.

"Hey Frankie, how's it hanging?"

"I hear it very nearly wasn't!"

"Surprised you ain't singin' soprano now, kid!"

"Thought you'd at least be wearing your nuts as a necklace!"

"Don't you guys ever take anything seriously?" Campbell sighed, obviously not up to one of the comedy duo's jibes.

"You ok, Frank?" This, from Guy Anders now, in a more understanding tone of voice.

"Yeah," Frank Campbell brushed off the other man's concern.

"So, wanna fill the rest of us schmucks in?" Chuck McCrea asked, watching as Eugene Webber placed the last of his dishes on his tray and turned to see if there was a place for him at their table.

"Yeah Frank, tell us what it was like," Shaw invited, leaning in now so that he could hear better.

"What am I missing?" Roger Dobbs asked innocently, regarding the looks being passed between all the other trainees.

"The way we hear it, the centrifuge threw a fit," Chuck McCrea advised.

"It was a minor malfunction," Campbell corrected.

"Man, the damned thing nearly flew off its moorings!"

"Yeah, damned near smeared you up the walls!"

"Frank?" Dobbs arched an eyebrow inquisitively, as he turned to face his bunk mate. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Didn't want to put you off your lunch, Major, besides which, you'd just got through with your own torture session with Psycho Sara," Campbell forced a weak smile to his lips.

"So what happened?" Dobbs asked in gentler tones now, but the look he aimed at Campbell was meant to leave the younger man in no doubt that the two of them would talk more on the subject, later.

"No-one's really sure. One thing they are sure of, that damned thing isn't supposed to be able to pull more than 20g's."

"We hear you clocked up 25g's"

"Man, don't remind me!"

A visible shudder ran down the length of the Nordic god's spine and this drew curious and sympathetic looks from the others around the table, just as Eugene Webber arrived to take up the empty place beside Guy Anders.

"No wonder you looked a little piqued," Dobbs sighed, watching as Eugene Webber, a huge, mountain of a man compared to the others seated around the table, measuring roughly six feet four inches tall and tipping the scales at the very least at least hundred and ninety pounds of pure muscle, deposited his dishes on the table and tucked into a thick, bloody steak with gusto.

Roger Dobbs estimated him to be a little older than the others, probably no more than thirty, though, which made Dobbs himself the eldest man on the project, just as he had suspected he would be. Webber was also blond, although not quite so Nordic as Campbell in appearance, his eyes were a piercing, blue and were now regarding him with suspicion, and something else that Dobbs could not quite figure out, as he tried to picture the man squeezing his bulk into a fighter jet's cockpit.

"Piqued, he's lucky he ain't pushing up daisies!" Shaw quipped and Roger Dobbs threw Frank Campbell a look that told him that he now understood the younger man's remarks about the project finding creative ways of killing them.

"Me thinks that makes Daisy a lucky gal!" McCrea chipped in and this elicited a groan from the others.

"That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?" Webber spoke up in a reasonable tone of voice now. "There is no doubt that it was a serious malfunction, but you can rest assured, they have their top people looking into it. Nothing like that will happen again."

"It shouldn't have happened, period!"

"Alright, settle down, guys. It happened, but Frank is ok, and there will be an investigation into why the centrifuge malfunctioned. Accidents happen, machinery fails and people make mistakes. We all know that. None of you can tell me that you haven't made mistakes, we all do, its human nature," he paused to take another mouthful of food and chewed for a few moments.

"And after that cheery word from our union spokesman …."

"Look guys, all I am saying is, things go wrong. People do make mistakes. Nothing is perfect. If it were, we wouldn't be here, because they wouldn't need us guinea pigs to test stuff out on now, would they?" He reasoned, throwing Malcolm Shaw a cold, hard glare.

"And I'd be the first one to agree with you, if it were only a one off thing," Chuck McCrea grew serious now and drew another cold, hard glare from Webber this time in his direction. "What? You don't think our new friend, Dobbs, here has a right to know what's going on?"

"There is nothing going on," Webber sighed heavily and set down his cutlery with a loud clatter.

"Man, two people have died!"

"In unfortunate accidents, but, accidents, nevertheless."

"You think someone was trying to kill Frank? Specifically Frank?" This, from Guy Anders now who suddenly seemed to grow uncomfortable, under the sudden, intense scrutiny, of his fellow trainees.

"No-one is saying anything of the sort," Webber said in a firm voice. "You have got to stop thinking that way, guys. Or else, before you know it, we get to thinking that the project is jinxed, and then we get to making mistakes …. Fatal mistakes," he warned.

"I've seen it happen before. Guys get to thinking that they are going to get killed, and end up making it a reality, because they panic, or get sloppy or just freak out at the wrong moment. You've all got to pull yourselves together and quit thinking that something bad is going to happen," he turned his gaze on Campbell now.

"I'm sorry, Frank, but let's face it, it could have been any one of us in the centrifuge today, and the only way to look at it is, you came out of it unhurt. A lesson will have been learned, and procedures will be put into place to ensure that it doesn't happen again."

"Ok," Campbell sighed, a little reluctantly, or so Dobbs thought, but it seemed to satisfy Webber, whom he also realised, seemed to be their unofficial leader.

"Good man."

"So, Major Dobbs, what exactly have they told you about us, here at Thunderbird?" Webber asked, shovelling carrots and peas and mashed potato onto his fork and directing it into his mouth.

"Not a lot."

"Good," Webber swallowed and prepared another forkful of food before looking up to regard Dobbs with undisguised dislike, leaving Dobbs with no doubt that the other man was already considering him as a threat to his position as top dog of the group, no doubt because of his age and experience. "Better to learn on the job, I always say."

"I guess you got the welcome to Thunderbird speech from the old man?"

"Sure did."

"So where were you before you came to USS Neptune?"

"Army Aviation Branch, at Fort Riley, Alabama. I was a senior instructor on Huey's, Apache attack choppers, Black Hawks, Kiowa Scouts and Cobra Light's, under the Army Helicopter Improvement Programme, AHIP."

"And before that?"

"Here and there," Dobbs shrugged, vaguely.

"And Vietnam," This, from Frank Campbell now, and Dobbs gave him one of his withering glares, wondering if he had thought that he was doing him a favour by bringing that into the conversation.

"How many tours did you do?"

"Three. '69 through '72."

"Wow!" Shaw and McCrea said together and then grinned at each other.

"Yeah, well, the war's been over for a long time. The Army moved on, and so did I."

Dobbs regarded the pair of jokers and could not help wondering if their double act was a cover for something a little more sinister. They acted like jokers, mischief makers, but maybe it was to hide their true purpose? To hide the true mischief they were here to make?

"How's it going to feel, being one of the trainees, instead of the instructor?"

"Different, but, I'm sure I'll handle it," Dobbs assured, feeling a definite chill emanating from Eugene Webber, as the other man continued to chew his food meticulously.

"Which do you prefer? Fixed wing or choppers?"

"Do I have to choose?" Dobbs grinned at Guy Anders now. "Could you, Air Force?" He arched an eyebrow quizzically, and the other man shook his head gently in response. "I just love to fly."

"That's the one thing we all have in common," Eugene Webber added now. "That, and the fact that we're all damned good at it."

"Amen to that!"

The rest of the lunch time conversation was centred round the day's scuttlebutt, a rumour that one of the ground crew maintaining the training jets was engaged in a romantic relationship with one of the female computer programmers, and the speculation that his wife would take him to the cleaners when she found out about it.

Roger Dobbs sat back and listened, pretending interest, when what he was really interested in was the group of men around the table, and how they interacted and worked as a group.

They seemed pretty comfortable and at ease in each other's company, and had seemed to accept him quite readily, for now, but only time would tell what they really thought of him.

"Ok guys, time to rock and roll," Eugene Webber informed after a particularly raucous joke from Malcolm Shaw, and rose from the table, stacking his dishes on his tray once more.

The others quickly followed suit, and before long only Dobbs and Campbell remained at the table. When he made to rise, Dobbs stopped Campbell by gently taking his forearm.

"You ok? Really?" He asked with genuine concern.

"Sure."

"Frank,"

"I'm ok, Major, really."

"Sure you are, and I'm Peter Pan," Dobbs growled. "Look, I know I'm the new face around here, and we haven't really gotten acquainted yet, but, if you need to talk to someone …."

"Thanks."

"I mean it, Frank. We're bunk mates, and we wear the same uniform. In a tight spot, I know which of these guys I want in my corner."

"Thanks." Campbell responded succinctly.

"Captain, I just heard that at least two people working in connection with this project have died, and that possibly someone tried to kill you, now if you won't talk to me, maybe I should go rattle Colonel Jardine's cage?"

"That won't be necessary, Major," Campbell sighed deeply, in resignation now.

"Frank, I'd really appreciate a heads up, that's all. I don't want to pull rank on you, but I think I have a right to know what I've walked into here, and I think you are the only one who is going to tell me anything worth a damn."

Campbell gave Dobbs a look that told him that he appreciated his overtures of concern, but that he was still unsure just what he could impart, and just how much he could trust the newcomer, same uniform in common, or no.

"Just how bad was it?"

"Bad enough," Campbell sighed deeply now, and ran his hand through his fine white blond hair, and there was still a noticeable tremor there, Dobbs noted. "But like Webber said, I walked away from it."

"Tough guy," Dobbs rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Ok, Frank, but …."

"I know, Major. Look, we're all scheduled to take a rest break until 16.00hrs. We can talk in private when we get back to our quarters," The young man offered, reluctantly. "Then I have to go to check in with Psycho Sara, just to make sure that there are no lasting effects from the centrifuge incident, so I'll show you the way to Dr Van Dam's office," Dobbs saw from the look on his face that he had made his decision about what he could tell his colleague.

He had reached the conclusion, it seemed, that if nothing else, the new comer had a right to know of all the dangers, including those from areas where he might not otherwise have expected them, outside of those involved in the testing procedures.

"Thanks," Dobbs smiled warmly now, in appreciation.

They cleared away the debris of their meal and then walked together in thoughtful silence, tagging along a little ways behind the rest of the trainees, following them through the twisting air conditioned corridors, before bidding farewell to the others, as they parted company with them, and retired to their quarters.

Once they were inside, Frank Campbell pulled off his boots and tossed them onto the floor at the end of his bed, then flung himself down on his cot, which groaned in protest to his sudden weight upon it and let out a deep sigh.

Roger Dobbs also sat down on the edge of his bed, bending down to untie the laces of his heavy boots, before easing them off and placing them neatly beneath the chair beside his bed.

"So …." Frank Campbell began with a note of reluctance in his voice, eyes closed, as he rested his head back on his folded arms, and crossed his ankles.

"Ok," Dobbs also let out a soft sigh now, as he too lay back on his bed and scrutinised the ceiling over head. "Take your time, Frank, but tell me everything that you can."

Frank Campbell filled Dobbs in on what had gone on before he arrived, and the incident involving him self and the centrifuge that morning, keeping his voice low and even, but it was not hard for Dobbs to hear the anxiety in his voice as he spoke.

However, none of it was really news to Dobbs, only going over ground he had already covered with Archangel and Dr Weeks.

The incident in the centrifuge seemed to be the only new incident that had occurred in the interim, and was probably just coincidental that it had happened on the same morning he had reported for duty at Thunderbird.

"Thanks Frank. I appreciate your candour," Dobbs spoke in a low voice at last.

"I don't know what's going on around here, Major, but I guess you have the right to know what the rest of us know," Campbell sighed. "Which, I guess, isn't a whole helluva lot."

"It could just be bad luck," Dobbs pointed out. "Or poor management," he added. "But …." he allowed his voice to trail away.

"I really hate that little word!"

"Me too. It has such vast implications. What about the other guys?" Dobbs asked in neutral tones, but this drew a suspicious look from Campbell now. "I don't mean, do you suspect any of them, Frank. I mean, what do they make of it?"

"They don't talk much about it," Campbell informed. "At least, not to me. I guess the others talk to their bunk mates, speculate, that kind of thing, but if we get to talking over chow, or in class, Webber usually jumps in and puts a stop to it. You saw for yourself just now. Says that it's bad for moral."

"More like burying your head in the sand and making like it isn't happening."

"Yeah. That's it exactly. If it ain't happening, then he don't have to deal with it."

"But something is going on."

"Maybe," Campbell didn't sound convinced.

"Or, like I said, it might just be bad luck and poor management, and I guess it's just as likely to be down to human error. Accidents do happen, and the law of averages says that in a project like this, there are more opportunities for accidents to occur," Dobbs grew thoughtful for a moment. "But, you don't think so, do you, Frank?"

"No, Sir."

"You know, Webber is right about one thing, people get to thinking that something is jinxed, that they are bound to get killed, and pretty soon they turn it into a reality. They don't fight back, just give in, because they think it is inevitable. Beyond their control."

"Yeah."

"So what do you think, Frank? Really?"

"I think someone doesn't want this project to succeed, Major, but as to the whom, and the why? Well, I guess the why is simple. Something like this new jet could give our side a major advantage in any war, with any given enemy, not just the Soviet Union, so it would be in everyone's best interests, if the project doesn't get off the ground. But the who? Russia, China, Libya, Cuba? You name it. There are a lot of countries out there that are pretty pissed with us right now," Dobbs nodded in silent agreement.

"But, as to any specific person, here at the base? No Siree, not a clue. Whoever he or she is, they've been pretty careful about not leaving any clue as to their identity. I'd even go so far as to say that they've been pretty clever in making everything look accidental or coincidental, so no-one really knows for sure what is going on."

"So, why you, Frank? You ticked off anyone in particular lately?"

"No Sir. I'm Mr Congeniality around here," Campbell grinned now.

"So again, friend Webber was right about it being any one of us in the centrifuge, not specifically you, Frank."

"I guess."

"Then we can take some comfort in that, at least. Everyone is equally vulnerable. All of us as likely a target as any other," Dobbs mused. "So it isn't personal, Frank."

"No, but forgive me for not being excited by that thought, Sir. It still mean's I'm in someone's line of fire."

"We all are."

"And we are all just as likely to be as suspect as any other," Campbell reminded.

"Even me," Dobbs acknowledged. "Just because I only just got here, it doesn't automatically follow that I'm not involved, I know that, and that's why I'm grateful for what you've already told me, Frank. It demonstrates at least a small measure of trust."

After that both men fell silent, and whilst Roger Dobbs tried to get comfortable and shed his mind of troubling thoughts, Frank Campbell, obviously not one to allow concerns for his health and welfare to stop him from getting his sleep, went out like a light, his breathing growing deep and even, as he fell into the arms of Morpheus.


	11. Chapter 11

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Ten.**

Eventually exhaustion must have won the day, for Dobbs suddenly jerked awake when the scraping sound of a chair on the polished tiled floor startled him from his slumbers and Frank Campbell smiled apologetically, as he rose from the chair beside his bed, where he had been tying his bootlaces once more.

After rising slowly to a sitting position on the bed, swinging his aching legs gingerly over the edge of the narrow bunk and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Roger Dobbs edged forward and reached down carefully, pulling his own boots back on, feeling as if he were all fingers and thumbs as he tried to tie knots in the black laces and that his back might break in too if he moved too quickly.

_**Man, you really must be getting old **_…. He thought sourly to himself.

"Ready, Sir?" Campbell asked with a note of impatience in his voice now. "I'd better get moving," he reminded now and glanced over at Dobbs expectantly.

"Yeah, thanks," even to his own ears he sounded groggy. "You ok?"

"Fit as a fiddle."

"Good."

Roger Dobbs followed his bunk mate down the twisting and turning corridors, trying to ignore the protests of every aching muscle in his entire body, including ones he didn't know he had before, until at last they arrived at the medical facility, and Campbell eyed the door to the examination room where Dobbs had just spent the best part of the morning, dubiously, and again Dobbs called to mind the sign he had seen on the perimeter of the base ….

_**All hope abandon ye who enter here ….**_

"It's not so bad. You said so yourself."

"Yeah," Campbell scowled. "After all, I've cheated death once today."

"Good man. So, where do I have to go?"

"You need to go down the corridor and turn left. That's where you'll find Dr Van Dam."

"Any thing else I should know, before I go in there? I'm not likely to end up on the rack am I?"

"Not physically, Sir."

"Well that's a small comfort, because the way my body feels right now, it wouldn't take much to break me," he smirked now, hand absently drifting up, fingers rubbing at the small of his back. "Where should I go when Dr Van Doom is done with me?"

"We have a class right now and then after a brief coffee break we're due at the test range at 18.00hrs. If you're not done with Dr Van Doom by the time we're scheduled to be at the range, I'll send someone to bail you out and show you the way, Sir."

"Frank, you don't have to keep calling me Sir. My name is Roger, but I guess I can live with Major, if you think Roger is too familiar."

"Ok, Roger," The younger man still looked a little bashful. "That's when you get to ride pillion," but this drew a genuinely warm smile from the younger man now.

"With you?"

"Not sure yet, we'll get our assignments when we report to the airfield."

"Don't get to fly with the same crew every flight? Don't know who you'll end up flying with either?"

"No. That's the way it works around here. We all get the same experiences, change crews, in back or up front, so that we all get to fly with each other and get an all round experience up there. It also ensures that we build trust in each other, at least up there …."

Dobbs nodded in silent understanding of the innuendo.

"Can't wait. Not going to wish me luck?"

"You won't need it. Dr Van Doom is a real pussy cat."

"Compared to Psycho Sara you mean?"

"She's ok, Major. You'll soon learn that everyone around here has a handle."

"Handle?"

"Nick name."

"And yours is?"

"What do you think?"

"Something Scandinavian, I'll just bet!"

With that, Roger Dobbs turned on his heel and marched briskly up the corridor, dreading to think what kind of handle the guys would come up with for himself as, turning as instructed, he made his way to the office of Dr Edward Van Dam, leaving Frank Campbell grinning at his receding back, thinking to himself that maybe Dobbs would turn out to be an ok bunk mate after all, and feeling more than a little relieved to have shared some of his anxieties with someone at last.


End file.
